Dig Down Deep
by lilsherlockian1975
Summary: Three years after his jump from Bart's rooftop, Sherlock returns home to London but things are very different than when he left. Molly Hooper is in for quite a surprise when he finally comes to thank her for her help. This story is a complete AU after Reichenbach. Romance, Adventure, Humor, Hurt/Comfort and some Angst.
1. Should I Stay Or Should I Go

_This is a post-Reichenbach AU. Sherlock was gone for three years, not two. Lots of things happened in his absence - lots of canon things, but I played with the timing a bit. The plot (and there will be plot) takes some events and characters from seasons three and four but uses them in different ways, the rest I made up (ya know, 'cause it's fiction ;)_

 _The title of the fic is the name of a Marc Cohn song. Having been burned before, I'm not putting the lyrics on the story, but I encourage you to look them up or listen to the song. It's wonderful! The chapter titles are songs as well and give little a clue as to what's happening in the accompanying chapter._

 _I have a lot of people to thank for this one, but I'll try to keep the rest of my A/Ns shorter as I update (like not thanking them every bloody time… I'm overly grateful). First and foremost, thanks go to MrsMCrieff who read over the first several thousand words actual years ago and kept encouraging me to finish it. She also helped with Brit issues throughout. Next, I'd like to thank darnedchild for checking the continuity and timeline for me. Huge thanks to allthebellsvenice for lots of technical d/s advice. And, of course, I have to MizJoely for betaing. I honestly don't know what I'd do without her… I mean that. Bless all these wonderful women! Lastly, I have to thank my amazing husband (who will not be reading this, but I must mention him nevertheless) for helping me with the medical, scientific and firearms business. I don't deserve him! Any and all mistakes are all mine._

 _ **Important:**_ _At times, you might find both Molly and Sherlock a bit OOC; this is deliberate. Later we will find out some of what happened during the mission and its effects on him. As for Molly, I'm writing this without the influence of 'season three Molly Hooper'. In my opinion, Molly wasn't necessarily completely 'in love' with Sherlock until his return (or possibly she figured out that it was more than a crush whilst he was gone), either way, try to keep that in mind._ _ **Warning:**_ _The story is about a Dom/sub dynamic. There's a lot of sex but nothing that I'd consider terribly hardcore and everything is completely consensual. It will also contain canon-typical violence in later chapters._

 _God help me but that's a lot of notes! I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **Chapter -1- Should I Stay or Should I Go (The Clash)**

Molly sat in her office, trying to concentrate on the report in front of her, unsuccessfully so. Her mind was, as had been the trend in the last three weeks, wandering.

Sherlock was back; his mission a success. He was once again living at Baker Street, just as he should be. However, nothing else was back to normal.

John Watson had _not_ forgiven his best friend for faking his death, right in front of him no less, then disappearing for three years. John was now married to a lovely woman and dear friend of Molly's, Mary Morstan. However, since Sherlock's return, Molly had not spoken to John - or rather _John_ had not spoken to _her_. Mary said he just needed time. Molly wasn't convinced. Frankly, the guilt was killing her. Mary was spending most of her time 'dealing' with her husband and his hurt feelings, so in a way, Molly had lost them both.

She had not heard from Sherlock since his return. Well, that wasn't completely true. He _had_ sent her a text from a new number, of course, saying that he was back. That's it. No 'thank you'. No 'sorry about asking you to lie, risking your job and possibly your life'. Just _'I'm back'_.

What did she really expect, though? Effusive gratitude? Praise for being the best death-faking pathologist in St. Barts? Maybe a tee shirt that said, "I helped an arsehat fool the whole world and all I got was this stupid shirt!"?

As for her job, she was constantly waiting for _that_ shoe to fall. She had no idea what was going to happen to her, though there had been rumors (and gossip, so much gossip). She had signed his death certificate, for God's sake. She was a pathologist who _apparently_ had a hard time discerning between a dead body and a live one. Would she be fired? Arrested? _Deported?_

Laughing quietly, she thought about just how hysterical she was being as she tried once again to get back to the mounds of paperwork that awaited her. That's when she realised that she wasn't alone.

"Something funny about that autopsy report, Molly?" Sherlock asked from the doorway of her office.

She was acutely aware of the blush that was blooming on her cheeks, though she was helpless to stop it. "No, just... ah, how are you, Sh-Sherlock?" she asked as she put down her pen and looked up at the man for the first time three years.

"Alive," he said with a soft, almost sincere looking smile. "Thanks to you."

She nodded. _There's my thanks_. "Did you- did you need something?" Sherlock seemed to have brought her stammer back with him. _Wondered where that got off to. Maybe it was in Eastern Europe all this time. Wish he'd just left it there._

He stepped out of the doorway and walked further into her office, removing his gloves and scarf as he sat down across from her. It wasn't even that cold outside, but he was dressed like it was the middle of winter. "Yes, actually." He stowed his gloves in his pocket and tossed his scarf onto her desk. "John's gone."

"Married, Sherlock, he's married. He wasn't abducted by aliens." She was rather proud of herself for that one.

He rolled his eyes. "Be that as it may, he's not speaking to me."

"Give him time." She tried to look anywhere other than the detective's eyes, but his laser focus kept drawing her back.

"Hmmm, I suppose. But I find myself in need of a..." He paused and cleared his throat. The gesture seemed oddly self-conscious. "You were engaged while I was away."

His sudden change of direction threw her for a moment, but she quickly recovered. "Yes."

"How was that?"

"How was… what?" she asked.

"Being engaged. Did you enjoy it?"

Molly studied the man for a moment, desperately trying to figure how where he was going. "Um, fine, I-I guess."

"You broke it off."

"It wasn't meant to be," she explained hoping he'd let the subject go.

"Why?"

 _Of course not! Nothing's ever simple with this man_. She closed her eyes and took a breath. When she opened them he was still focused on her. "I'd really rather not discuss this with you, if you don't mind."

Sherlock continued to stare at her for a long moment. "Why? I've already deduced it."

Molly felt tears sting in her eyes. "Didn't you say that you needed something from me?" she asked, attempting to change the subject.

"Yes, but this _is_ relevant. I deduce that you ended things with your-" He paused, tilting his head, he seemed to think for a moment. "Tom, was it? Because of unresolved feelings for me. Is that true?"

Molly swallowed, praying that the threatening tears would hold off, just this once. "I haven't seen you in almost three years." Her voice was shaky with barely controlled anger. "And your first order of business upon returning, that is after avoiding me for three weeks, is to bring up my old crush. And how the hell do you even know Tom's name?"

Then the git smirked. "That was impressive." His eyes traveled over her. "Just about all the false bravado you could muster at once, huh?"

"Arse." He was teasing her.

"I know the _real_ reason, Molly, no need to get defensive. It was a poor attempt at a joke, nothing more," he said with a shrug.

She seriously doubted that he knew or understood the real reason she and Tom had broken up, but she was in no mood to argue. Besides, the reason was personal and a 'not to be discussed with Sherlock Holmes' topic. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

"I propose an arrangement. You're right about John, he _will_ forgive me, eventually. But there's still the problem with his marriage. I simply do better when I don't live alone."

"I'm sorry?"

He rolled his eyes. "Giving up your flat will be no great sacrifice. Baker Street is much closer to Barts and it will save you money."

"You're asking me to be your flatmate?" That explained the questions about her feelings toward him.

He stood up. "An arrangement, as I said." He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a small velvet box. "I don't expect an answer right away. You're a pragmatic woman, after all. Let me know when you've decided."

And with that, he walked out of her office leaving Molly Hooper with an engagement ring and a shit load of questions.

o0o0o0o

Molly went through the rest of her day and tried- _tried_ to keep her mind off of Sherlock's proposal and _the box_. Not an easy task. The word 'arrangement' kept bouncing around in her mind. _Arrangement?_ _What the hell does that even mean?_ But it couldn't be avoided. She was not Sherlock Holmes. She would not wait three weeks before pulling off the plaster.

The ring itself was actually stunning, she found out once she allowed herself to look at it. She was fairly certain it was an antique; it had clearly been worn before. The large center stone was a striking yellow sapphire and was flanked by smaller (yet still big, by Molly's standards) diamonds. All of the stones were emerald cut and practically glowed with perfection. The piece made Tom's ring look cheap and thoughtless. It wasn't gaudy, though. Molly had taken the time to look up something similar on the internet and found that the style was considered Art Deco.

It did make her wonder, of course. Where the hell did it come from? And why in the name of all things holy did he leave her with it?

Seven thirty that evening she found herself standing in front of a familiar black door, a nervousness that she hadn't felt in years burning in her stomach. Mrs. Hudson let her in with a hug and a warm smile, directing her to go on up, saying that Sherlock was expecting her.

 _I'm sure he is_ , Molly thought as she climbed the stairs.

Sherlock was standing by the windows, his back to her as she entered. "So, um, I've thought about your-" She couldn't bring herself to actually say the word _proposal_ , no. "Suggestion. The, ah, arrangement that you suggested."

He turned around and took a step towards her, his camel coloured dressing gown flowing gracefully as he moved. "I assume you have an answer for me, Molly," he said without a hint of what he might hope her _answer_ might be.

"Why?"

He tilted his head. "Why...?"

"Why the engagement ring, Sherlock? You want - need a flatmate, why did you leave me with an engagement ring?"

"You've been engaged before, I assume you understand what the acceptance of such a trinket suggests." He still spoke with no real emotion, but at least he didn't seem annoyed at having to answer her questions. Molly counted that as a point in her favour.

"You weren't married to John, why would you need..."

"Did you question Tom's motives when he proposed?" he interrupted.

She was nervous enough without his domineering ways. "Is this to get back at John?"

He furrowed his brow. "What?"

"Are you angry that he got married? Is that it? Are you trying to make him... jealous?"

He gave her a sideways grin. "You think I'm in love with John Watson?" He laughed as he walked closer to her. "No, Molly, I'm not jealous. Nor trying to make _him_ jealous. _This_... is not about John."

She had used up just about all of her bluster.; the John thing was her ace in the hole. "What is it then? Because I've been trying, all day, to figure out why you'd... why on Earth..."

He stepped slightly closer to her, then gave her 'a look'. _Oh, damn you, Sherlock Holmes!_

"Fine. You're under suspicion, Molly."

"You think I don't know that?"

"You signed my death certificate, faked an autopsy and committed criminal offenses."

"I'm aware, I was there, after all."

"My brother is working on fixing things, but I need to be able to protect you. What better way than to make you my wife? If we are asked questions they can't make us testify against one another. It will keep you out of custody for the meantime, at least. Mycroft thinks simply having the Holmes name will offer you a measure of protection as well."

 _Wait, did he say…?_ "Custody, Sherlock?"

"Yes, there has been talk, apparently, of bringing you in for questioning. But I won't let…"

" _Oh my God,"_ she whispered as she felt herself getting light-headed. All the things she'd been afraid of since his return were actually happening. She'd lose her job. She'd go to jail. Before it had just been speculation; a feeling that something was about to happen. _I'll never make it in prison… I'll be… God!_ "Oh my God..." Suddenly she realised that she was seated on Sherlock's sofa and that he was speaking to her but she couldn't make out what he was saying.

"Molly... Molly... Margaret Louise Hooper!" he said in a slightly raised voice.

"I'm fine. So-sorry Sh-Sherlock. Ah... yes. My answer is yes," she said as her breathing started to even out. She hardly noticed Sherlock's hand rubbing small circles on her back.

o0o0o0o

Three days later Molly Hooper became Molly Holmes in a very small ceremony at the closest registrar's office. Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft Holmes were there to witness the strange event that ended with Sherlock placing a small chaste kiss on the corner of Molly's mouth. When he pulled away he whispered, "Smile, Molly, this is supposed to be a happy day." One side of his mouth curled up before he turned to his brother and started talking.

Evidently, Sherlock had been planning it for some time since Molly was well aware that there was a waiting period and it was indeed more than three days. A group of black-suited men had moved some of her belongings into 221B the day before. Her furniture, including her bed, went into storage.

Sherlock had, it seemed, purchased a new bed, mattress, vanity and chair, chest of drawers and wardrobe for the upstairs room that used to belong to John Watson. When she asked why she couldn't just bring her own furnishings, he waved her off, saying something about needing to 'fill the space'. At the time she chalked it up to one of his oddities.

The morning of the ceremony Molly had phoned Mary, assuming she would have to leave a message.

" _Oh, thank God you answered!" she said when she heard her friend's voice._

" _What's wrong, Molly?" Mary asked._

" _It's just… well…"_

" _Molly, I miss you so much. But John…"_

" _I know, I know. Um, today is... "_

" _You and Sherlock?"_

" _How'd you know?"_

" _I have to know what's going on, it's my job." Mary took a deep breath. "He's not gonna be happy about this."_

" _John?" Molly was confused by both statements. "Why would he care?"_

" _Because he's in a permanent state of disapproval lately." She started to speak, but her friend continued, "Oh, Molly… I'm sorry I can't be there for you today. I wish I could, you know that right?"_

" _Yeah, Mare, I know."_

" _And I can't tell you that you're doing the right thing, either. But Sherlock's a good man, Molly. And if you trust him, then… trust yourself."_

 _There was a pause while Molly tried to digest her friend's words._

" _I have to go," Mary said. "Try to enjoy today, love. I'm still working on John."_

 _It wasn't until later that night whilst she lay in her new bed that it dawned on Molly that Mary didn't know Sherlock. How would she know what kind of man he was?_

o0o0o0o

Nothing much changed about her relationship with the detective after becoming his wife. There were a few moments though, when he was home, that she'd catch him just looking at her. Their eyes would lock and then a game of sorts would commence. Molly always lost and looked away first. It did make her wonder, _what on earth is he looking at?_

They did speak, of course. They talked about cases, about Barts, about the investigation; Sherlock telling her how to handle any and all questions that might come her way. They talked about milk - or the lack thereof - quite a bit and whether or not he might be around for meals. But nothing remotely personal, and Molly liked it that way.

The closest thing to a 'personal conversation' they had occurred about a week after she moved in…

"There was a… _cat_ , if I remember correctly," Sherlock said, standing in the doorway of the flat, looking around curiously.

Clearly he had only just noticed Toby's absence. _Shocking!_ She rolled her eyes. "He ran away. Hated Tom's dog," she said, returning her attention to her book. _God, I loved that cat_.

"You loved that cat!" he said, sitting down next to her.

Molly had to make herself not smile. "I did, Sherlock, but he's gone."

He looked thoughtful for several moments, then hummed to himself as he stood with a confused look on his face and walked away. " _Unacceptable_ ," he mumbled as he left the room.

Molly stared after him, wondering what the hell that was supposed to mean.

Strange little endearing moments like that threatened to pull her back into the depths of unrequited ... well, not love, but intense _like_. She had no intention of subjecting her heart to _that_ ever again. It had taken killing him (or pretending to) and falling in love with another man for her to finally get over him and she did not want to walk back down that dark and dangerous road, especially now.

For the most part, however, he seemed intent on taking any and all cases that came his way. Greg was more than happy to have him back. Molly hadn't seen much of the DI in the three years that Sherlock was 'dead'. He occasionally stopped into the morgue, that is after he was reinstated to DI nearly a year after the events of Reichenbach. He had been knocked down to Sergeant for some time. But after a thorough investigation into all of Sherlock's cases had proved that neither he nor Greg had done anything wrong, Lestrade had finally gotten his job back.

Every time Molly did see him whilst Sherlock was away, she felt it: The Tension. The pain. _The guilt_. Now that Sherlock was back, Greg was pleased to have his assistance once again. He must have known something about her and Sherlock's 'arrangement' because he didn't ask a single question the first time he came to the flat to find Molly lounging on the settee with a book and a mug of tea. He simply smiled pleasantly and asked her about work. He seemed to have forgiven her, or perhaps he never held any animosity toward her to begin with.

If only John could do the same.

Molly knew that being without his best friend was taking a toll on Sherlock (even if he wouldn't admit it), she just had no idea what to do about it. She had spoken with Mary a couple of times right after Sherlock's return and she knew how John felt about her and about Sherlock, at least to some extent. Knowing didn't do anything but worsen the oppressive guilt she felt. She'd hurt people: good, kind people and it was killing her. She'd grown so close to John and Mary while Sherlock was away and their absence was deeply painful.

She had no one to blame but herself. Oh, she could have put the blame on Sherlock, but she knew exactly what she was doing when he asked for her help. At any point in the three years that he'd been gone all she had to do was tell John. _Just tell him._ But she had let her feelings for a man who didn't return those feelings, keep her lips tightly sealed. She tried telling herself that it was for John's protection, for Sherlock's, but she knew better. Deep down she knew that she had held onto Sherlock's secret, coveting it, the way she'd never be able to hold his heart. She continued to hold it like some precious piece of him, even after she fell in love with Tom and the sting of loneliness had left her. That's why she felt so guilty. Not that she hadn't told him - because she couldn't have, she knew that - but because she selfishly relished her secret knowledge.

Other than the guilt, Sherlock's strange looks and constantly worrying about her future, life at Baker Street really wasn't all that bad. They got along better than she and Tom ever had. Certainly less fighting. Of course that could have been because Sherlock spent so little time at home and since she had no expectations of him, she didn't feel the least bit slighted when he was out on a case.

That was probably why being 'married' seemed to be working. Okay, so it had only been a couple of weeks and could potentially go tits up at any moment, but Molly was confident that it wouldn't. Their relationship was symbiotic. She was no fool. Even though she believed that he was acting in her best interest by marrying her, she also knew that he didn't like being alone and had admitted as much. He wasn't lying about that; it wasn't in his nature to just say something to spare someone's feelings. He would first have to notice a person _had_ feelings.

Mutually beneficial cohabitation seemed to be exactly what Molly needed at this point in her life. And even though she was comfortable at Sherlock's flat, it was far from perfect. Just being around him was doing a number on her digestive system. She had forgotten that he sometimes gave her a, um… _nervous stomach_ , so she was being very selective about what she ate. Not to be indelicate, but she had yet to be able to have a poo whilst he was in the flat!

Her sleep had suffered quite a bit as well. She couldn't quite figure this out since it could be many things causing her insomnia. It had been the same when she was in uni; her sleep was always screwed up around finals time. So, perhaps it was the stress. But that bloody bed wasn't helping one bit! Not a complainer, Molly didn't want to say anything, but that was the most uncomfortable mattress she'd ever slept on!

Utter politeness kept her from doing anything about the 'extra firm' bed, but she could try to assuage her guilt and bringing two best friends back together. So she focused on that problem instead.

* * *

 _Lots of set up and... wow, married!? What has Molly gotten herself into?_

 _This story is almost three years in the making (mostly because I kept putting it away and coming back until I knew exactly what I wanted to do with it). It is very close to my heart and I put sooo much work into it. Please drop me a line and let me know how I'm doing. It is about 90% finished, just need to fill in a few blanks here and there._

 _If you'd like to see an image of Molly's ring, check the fic out on AO3 (I'll probably add the ring to my_ tumblr _as well). My name is the same on each site. Want to thank mellovesall for helping me with the image because I'm inept._

 _Thanks so much for reading ~Lil~_


	2. Lapdance

_All right, you all seem to be on board. Excellent. Please remember my thanks and warnings from chapter one. Things will heat up fast in this one._

 _I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **Chapter - 2 - Lapdance (N.E.R.D.)**

Three weeks after the wedding Molly had had enough of the silent treatment from the former army doctor. She wanted him back in her life and, more importantly, back in Sherlock's. Making her decision, she went to see him at the clinic where both he and Mary worked. Looking back she _really_ wished she'd listened to the ball of nerves in her stomach just this once, because the 'conversation' was a lot more like a one way shouting match, with Molly on the receiving end.

Evidently, John had heard about their recent union and was none too happy about it. He spewed hurtful names and hateful accusations at her. He claimed that Sherlock was taking advantage of Molly's feelings and that she didn't know what was good for her. That she needed to grow a spine and to quite frankly get as far away from the detective as she could. He confused her by saying something about everyone doing Sherlock's bidding ' _simply because he asks'_ and that he was surrounded by ' _crazy, lying women'_. Mary blanched at the last part. ' _You know what? You two are so fucked up that you deserve each other!'_ he'd shouted. Mary had finally stepped in and defused the situation, thankfully. In the end, Molly left, completely defeated.

Sherlock was out when Molly got back to 221B. She was actually incredibly grateful for this fact. She wanted to cry, she did, but she just couldn't. The tears wouldn't come. So instead she paced. And paced some more. She was _still_ pacing when Sherlock arrived thirty minutes later. He spoke to her, though she hardly noticed. "I'm sorry?" she asked as he guided to sit down on the settee.

"I said: Mary phoned me. I know about what happened at the clinic. Well some of it," he explained, sitting next to her.

"Mary… phoned _you_?" she asked distractedly. Something about that statement was important but she couldn't figure out what. She shook it off for the moment though. "I thought you were on a case."

"Solved it. You need to relax, Molly." Sherlock gently placed his hand on her back, causing her to flinch.

"Oh, um, I'll be fine. Just n-need a good night's sleep." She was staring across the room, still going over John's hateful words in her head. He'd been so cruel.

"Yes, you do need sleep but I think you need a fair bit more than that and I can help you, I know what you need. I've been studying you and..."

"You've not been home," she said turning to look at him. There was something different about his eyes, though she couldn't quite place it.

"I've been home enough. The guilt's crushing you, Molly. Though I can't say I understand it, I _can_ help alleviate it."

"How? What... what are you talking about?" He was confusing her. She just wanted to be alone and… cry. She _really_ needed a good cry.

Sherlock's hand moved in slow circles on her back. "Do you trust me, Molly Holmes?"

" _Yes,"_ she whispered, goosebumps erupting on her skin. It was the first time he'd said her new name; the first time she'd heard him say it at least. It sounded lovely. Intoxicating. Somewhere, in a very distant part of her mind, warning bells were going off. She ignored them.

"Good. Then allow me to take care of you," he said, still rubbing her back so softly she could barely feel it. "Just trust me."

"Wh-what...?"

"Stand up," he said with an air of authority; one she'd heard many times before, but this time it was slightly different about the tone.

Though she felt like something unreal was happening, Molly stood up on trembling legs.

"Thank you. Now, undress."

She gasped, unable to take her eyes off of Sherlock as his gaze seemed to heat her from the inside. The bells got louder. "I don't…"

"Please, Molly, take off your clothes," Sherlock said as casually as if he were asking her to pass him a pipette.

 _Why would he…?_ She tried to wrap her mind around his request; it made no sense. _He can't possibly…_ "Sherlock, I don't understand."

He smiled, softly and soothingly. "I know that you're confused right now but it _is_ important." Reaching up, he took her hand, his thumb rubbing across her knuckles. "I want to help you relieve some tension and give you something else to focus on for the moment."

She was at war with herself. Removing her clothes in front of this man seemed like her greatest fear come to life, but there was something about the way he was looking at her, the way he was holding her hand so gently. It was damn near... sweet.

The warning bells were being drowned out by deep a yearning that she hadn't felt since… _Of course...since he left_. That realisation alone should have stopped her.

It didn't, however.

Taking a deep breath, Molly looked away, pulling her hand out of his. She closed her eyes, deciding that whatever he had planned, God help her, she'd go along because one, she _did_ trust him and two, the guilt _was_ killing her. Anything was better at this point. Even stripping naked in front of the deductive genius who would surely see every single flaw... _Shit. No, I can't do this._

She must have been standing - _not undressing_ \- for too long because Sherlock spoke, "I only want to help, Molly."

She looked at him once again to find him staring up at her with an air of nonchalance that didn't fit with tension in the room. "But…"

"I promise I'll do nothing that you don't want; nothing that you won't… enjoy. This is what you need." Sitting forward, elbows on his knees, he said, his voice almost cold, almost detached, "Now, undress."

His voice had started out soft, reassuring but the last sentence was spoken with an authoritative tone that made her belly flip. She knew that this meant danger, but the fear was distant now, somewhere in the back of her mind. With a nod, she faced away from him and started.

She unbuttoned her top with shaking fingers and dropped it to the floor, then quickly removed her socks and trousers before she lost her diminishing nerve. Her eyes flicked to his when she reached behind her back to her bra, and then her bravery fled. Fighting tears - _Oh, now I can cry!_ \- she closed her eyes, trying to will herself to continue. Her inner turmoil was halted when she felt Sherlock's hands on her shoulders.

"Shall I assist with these last two garments, _wife_?"

The way he said 'wife' nearly caused her to moan out loud. Not trusting her voice _at all_ , she nodded her acquiescence. Sherlock ran his hands down her arms, then reached up and took her hair down from her sensible ponytail, carefully combing his fingers through it and draping it over her shoulder. Finally, he unfastened her bra and brushed the straps off, letting it fall as he rubbed the slight indentation they had made in her skin.

"You're trembling, Molly. Are you cold? Nervous?" He brushed his lips across her neck. "Excited?"

 _What is going on?_ She swallowed. _This can't be happening._ "N-not cold."

"I see." His hands traveled down her back until they reached her pants; plain white cotton. She'd had no reason to wear anything fancy, though she did own nicer ones. He hooked his fingers in the elastic band and knelt behind her as she stepped out of them.

"There," he said as he stood back up. "Wasn't so hard, was it?"

Molly shook her head.

"Now, I'm going to sit back down and I want you to lie across my lap, face down. Remember what I said, Molly. You _have_ to trust me."

After a full minute of internal struggle, she slowly turned to face him, frankly terrified of the judgment she was about to see. But she saw none. What she did see nearly stopped her heart. Sherlock looked completely normal like he _wasn't_ looking at a naked woman and had just asked her to lie across his lap. He _was_ sporting an impressive erection, however, Molly couldn't help but notice.

"The- the door?" she asked, pointing in its general direction and trying to buy some time.

"It's locked."

"Your lap, you said?"

He smirked. "Yes. My lap. I promise you'll enjoy this and you'll feel so much better when we're finished."

Molly nodded as she put her knees next to his thighs and placed her body over his legs. "Like this?"

"Yes. Grab that cushion, it will make you more comfortable."

Molly picked up the cushion, one that she'd brought down from her room when she'd taken a nap the day before, and placed it under her chest. She clutched it for dear life.

Sherlock's fingers immediately started playing with her hair. "How's that?" he asked.

"It's fine," she answered. The truth was that his hard cock was pushing into her stomach, though not necessarily causing her pain... it was driving her a bit mad.

His fingers started massaging her scalp, gently, tenderly. Then his other hand touched her ankle, causing her body to jerk involuntarily. "Molly, you _must_ relax. Just give me control. You can't control everything, you know. You can't control John's anger or what's going to happen with the inquest or the fact that your insipid coworkers are gossiping about us."

Molly tried to turn, but Sherlock held her firmly, yet gently in place. "How'd you know...?"

He ignored her question. "You have to let go sometimes. Let me take care of those things. You've spent so much time taking care of me. Just breathe, darling." His hand traveled up her leg until it reached her bottom, then traveled back down the other leg, all the while continuing to rub her head.

Molly sighed in contentment, let her head rest on the cushion. It really was hypnotic. His hands, his voice, the way he said _darling_. She'd almost forgotten that she was lying naked on a fully clothed Sherlock Holmes, if only for a moment.

"You have a lovely arse, Mrs. Holmes. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"No," she replied absently.

"A shame."

She breathed out deeply, relaxing further under his ministrations.

"Molly, have you ever been spanked before?" he asked in as soft, soothing voice.

She responded without hesitation. "My Aunt Helen spanked me for cutting down her prize-winning roses when I was seven."

He laughed softly, then his hand started to gently massage her bottom. "Well, I was speaking of something a bit more recent and _adult_ in nature."

"Oh..." That's when it all clicked. _Of course_ he'd have deduced her… her _predilections_. How could she have thought she hide _that_ whilst living with him? He was going to... "Sherlock? Are you going to…?"

"You said you trusted me, Molly. I wouldn't even have suggested it if I didn't think that you needed it." He lightly swatted one arse cheek. It didn't even sting.

"Um, o-okay."

"You're tensing again. Just relax." He slapped her again in the same spot, this time a bit harder. It was amazing. She felt the slight sting to her flesh, but also she felt it in her centre. "You liked that, didn't you?"

Molly nodded.

"Answer me, Molly or I won't do it again."

"Yes."

As soon as she said it Sherlock brought his hand down on the other cheek, just as hard as he had before. "Another?" he asked.

"Yes."

Again, this time two precise slaps in a row, each harder than the last. "Yes!" Molly said before he even asked this time. But she felt nothing.

"Say it; ask me," Sherlock demanded.

Molly had been thinking about this moment for a _very_ long time. Surprisingly, not all of her fantasies centered around Sherlock. Most of them were of nameless, faceless people, tying her up, spanking her bottom red and ordering her to come on command. Before talking to Tom, she had read a half dozen books, visited websites and even chatted with other like minded people, using the anonymity of the internet to hide behind to ask her questions and gather information. This was the moment she'd been waiting for. She'd deal with the surprise and the consequences that it was Sherlock Holmes' lap she was lying across later.

"Please spank my bottom, Sherlock," she said clearly, with a hint of desperation, because she _did not_ want him to stop. As vulnerable as she felt… as exposed - less about her nakedness than her secret - she not only wanted this, she _needed_ it.

His hand squeezed first her right buttock, then her left. "Such a good girl," he crooned. "So sweet." His words contradicted his actions as four consecutive smacks rained down on Molly's arse, much harder than before. She was far beyond turned on. Between his words of praise and the intensity of the spanking, she was gasping and clawing at the cushion, grinding herself on Sherlock's cock. "Molly... you have to…!" He grunted and gasped, trying to still her hips in a tight hold. "Fuck! Don't!."

Suddenly, he slapped her even harder and lower, finding the sensitive skin of her upper thighs. "Be still or I'll stop!" he said, his voice louder but more controlled.

Molly froze and tried to make her body behave. Her mind, however, was not her own at the moment. All she could think about was Sherlock's hand and what he was going to do next. Drawing a deep breath, she realised that tears were pouring out of her eyes.

 _Smack. Smack. Smack. Smack_.

"Say it; ask for more."

"Spank me!" she managed. "Please!"

 _Smack. Smack. Smack. Smack._

She felt herself getting wetter and wetter with each strike.

He rubbed her hot, sore bottom then slipped a finger between her wet folds. "Is this what you want... wife?"

Molly moaned, unable to speak. His finger toyed with her outer lips, never breaching her entrance.

When she didn't reply, he pulled back. "Molly..."

"Yes, please!" was her breathy reply.

He returned his finger, gently toying with her pussy. His other hand, the one that had been rubbing her head, traveled down her back and over her arse. "Oh, if you could see yourself right now, such a lovely shade of pink I've made you. Nearly red, but not quite. My hand prints covering you luscious little bottom." He continued to play with her folds, ever so slowly - never breaching her, never touching her needy clit. "How do you feel? Right now, Molly Holmes, tell me what you feel?"

Molly's mind was blissfully awash with a thousand sensations and yet none at all. She didn't quite know how to describe it to this man who held her _literally_ in the palm of his hand. Finally, one word came to her blissed-out mind. " _Free_ ," she whispered not even wondering if Sherlock had heard her.

Sherlock sighed and said, "Perfect. You're completely perfect like this, Molly, did you know that?"

She hummed her response.

"Would you like to come now?" he asked, dipping his finger just inside her opening.

"Please."

"You've been so good. Always so incredibly good," he whispered.

Suddenly his pace changed. He drove one finger... two? how many Molly didn't know into her with a force he'd not yet used. His thumb brushed her clit for the first time and she felt her orgasm building quicker and stronger than anything she'd ever experienced in her life. She wanted to warn him - tell him what was happening - for some reason, but all she could manage was to shout incoherently into the cushion beneath her.

As she came back to earth she realised she was alone on the sofa, briefly wondering if Sherlock had gone out for another case. She suddenly felt something warm and wet between her legs. Then it was gone and her bottom was being rubbed with some kind of oil, it was soothing - comforting. She felt silky fabric being draped over her shoulders, then she was lifted and sat upon Sherlock's lap. She could do nothing but melt into his embrace.

"Here, drink this," he said, bringing a glass to her lips.

She obediently did as he asked, taking the glass from him and drinking the cool, slightly sweet, liquid greedily.

Sherlock brushed his lips across her forehead as he took the glass from her hand then gently wiped her face with a dry piece of cloth. "How are you feeling now, Molly?"

"Like I could sleep for a month," she answered and Sherlock chuckled.

"Well then, let's get you to bed."

* * *

 _Oh...my! That escalated quickly. Please, tell me what you think. Reviews/comments make my day. Thanks so much for reading ~Lil~_


	3. Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go

_Thank you all for your continued support. I'm so glad that you're enjoying the fic so far. Remember my thanks and warnings, please._

 _I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

 _Now, how 'bout we check on the fall-out from Molly Holmes' First Spanking?_

* * *

 **Chapter 3 - Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go (Wham!)**

Molly occasionally missed her old flat. She missed the small balcony where she would often drink her first cup of coffee. She missed her neighbor Mrs. McMasters who kept her supplied with homemade biscuits. But she didn't miss her old bathroom, with its shower instead of a tub, wobbly toilet and what she suspected was black mold (later confirmed with a few lab tests, though nothing would get rid of it). Sherlock's bathroom was superior in every possible way. It was large and well fitted with modern fixtures. But the best feature was the enormous tub. Molly wanted to live in it.

When she woke the next morning she found herself naked, a little sore and a lot confused, lying in Sherlock's bed. The first thing she did, after getting up, was pour herself the hottest bath she could stand and have a much-needed soak.

It didn't take long for her to do a little math and realise that Sherlock had not only spanked and fingered her ( _putting a pin in that_ ) but the bastard had drugged her as well! She had slept for nearly eleven hours. There was no way she'd become so relaxed after their… activities... that she'd been rendered comatose. It had been a while since she'd had sex (and even longer since she'd had _good_ sex) but that didn't account for the length and way she had slept.

Impressive orgasm or not, she was going to flay him when she next saw him (right after she got over the embarrassment of coming on his hand like a freight train!). Knowing how hard he'd been working, Molly assumed she had some time before she'd have to face him. By then she planned on being properly over the spanking and have moved on to explaining, forcefully if need be, about the importance of boundaries especially where 'drugging people to sleep against their will' was concerned.

As she stepped out of the tub she realised that she had brought no clothes into the room. With a sigh, she donned Sherlock's burgundy dressing gown that she'd appropriated upon waking since her clothes were nowhere in sight.

The second she opened the bathroom door she knew he was there, even before stepping out of the room. A clank of china and the scooting of a chair across the lino told her that there was someone else in the flat. A feeling of foreboding told her it was her 'husband' and not their landlady.

How was she going to handle this? She needed more time to process… all of _that_... before having to deal with the man. Now he was here and...

Then he was in her face, or at least less than two feet from it. "Ah, I was considering sending in a search party," he said with a slight grin as he blocked her exit.

Molly said nothing, too shocked by his sudden appearance.

Stepping to the side he said, "I have a surprise for you."

"I'm not sure about anymore of your… surprises."

He just chuckled and walked into the kitchen; Molly reluctantly followed.

"Have a seat," he said, motioning to the completely clean table.

Molly stood there, looking down at the spotless piece of furniture. "When did you do this?"

Sherlock, busy pouring a cup of coffee, glanced over his shoulder. "Couldn't sleep."

 _Of course you couldn't, I was in your bed,_ she thought as she sat down. A cup of coffee appeared to her right and she peered at it cautiously.

"It's not drugged, Molly."

She simply couldn't resist the inviting aroma and took a drink. It was perfect. "I'm quite mad at you, you know."

"I am aware," he said very close to her left ear. "But will you do me a favour and close your eyes."

"No."

"Molly…" Placing both his hands on her shoulders and squeezing lightly, he continued, "You've got to learn to trust me."

She pretended not to be affected by his slow ministrations on her tense muscles. "I might if you didn't do things like slip me unknown drugs."

"That was completely herbal… well, _almost_ completely." The mirth in his voice was unmistakable.

"If you think this is funny…"

"Close your eyes, wife. I have something to give you!"

 _Is it another mind-numbing orgasm?_ she thought, as her eyelids fell shut. _And what's with the 'wife' thing all of a sudden?_

"Good girl," he praised with a final squeeze before releasing her.

Molly waited, eyes closed, feeling a little ridiculous and a tiny bit excited about what he had in store for her. It was madness! She should be thrashing him for what he did, not playing his little games.

"Okay, open up."

Molly opened her eyes and looked down to see what Sherlock was holding under her nose. "Oh, sweet Lord. Is that..?"

"It is."

"How'd you know?"

"I overheard you talking about them with Mrs. Hudson the other day. Only took me twenty minutes to locate a bakery that made them," he explained as he sat the plate in front of her and handed her a fork.

Molly took it from him, her eyes never straying from the food in front of her. "That was… nice of you."

Sherlock was no longer by her side, she heard him behind her preparing another cup of coffee. She cut into the luscious looking confection then brought the bite to her mouth. Stopping the moan that came out of her would have been nigh-on impossible.

A deep, lusty chuckle came from Sherlock as he sat down across from her. "I take it you like it?"

"It's warm," she observed.

"Indeed. Vernon at _The Sweet Spot_ recommended that I warm it for you," he explained.

"So, is that where you've been all morning? Cronut hunting?" She took another bite.

"No." He paused, looking slightly uncomfortable. "I also spoke with John."

"Really?" she said hopefully.

"Well, when I say spoke…"

That's when she noticed his knuckles. "Oh my God, Sherlock! You _punched_ him?" She reached across the table, grabbing his hand and examined it. _No broken skin, just bruises._ "That's not going to fix anything. Why? Why on Earth…?"

"I allowed him to punch me twice when I returned. That's all he gets," he growled. "Besides, after the way he spoke to you yesterday…"

Molly stood up, taking her plate (still very much full of cronut) and coffee cup to the counter, Sherlock followed right behind her. "I don't need defending!"

"He basically called you a weak, dimwitted, sycophant," he bit out as he poured his coffee down the drain. Obviously everyone's breakfast was ruined.

Whipping around, Molly squared on the detective. "I won't have you making this situation worse on my account!"

Sherlock stepped closer and braced his arms on the countertop, caging her in. "And why not? You are my wife. What's the point of all this if not to protect you, Molly?"

He had a dangerous look in his eyes and Molly knew it was pointless to argue. "Fine. But I won't thank you for giving your best friend a bloody nose for me. We're grown people, Sherlock, act like it."

"It's a black eye. I would have had to bend down to punch him the nose. And don't worry about me and John, that will fix itself. Eventually. His anger is misplaced. He'll have to deal with it at some point." He inched closer, bringing his hands to rest on her hips, reminding her just how naked she was under the gown. "As for you being grown." He nuzzled her neck. "I'm perfectly aware of just how _grown_ you are, Mrs. Holmes."

Her body tensed instinctively. How did she lose control of the situation so fast? "Sherlock…"

"Hmmm?"

"What the hell's going on? We aren't… _really_ married."

"We are actually. I was there. I remember it vividly."

"You know what I mean. Why are you…" God, it was hard to form coherent sentences when Sherlock was nipping at the skin of her shoulder. But she still couldn't relax, it had been so much easier last night. "This wasn't supposed to be real."

He pulled back, thankfully, and looked her in the eyes. _Oh no…_

"Molly," His voice sounded like melting chocolate,"did you or did you not enjoy yourself last night? Don't lie. I have the distinct memory of you coming apart on my hand."

"You arse." She folded her arms across her chest. "Of course I did!"

"Well then, what's the problem?"

 _Stupidest genius in the world!_ "The problem is, Sherlock, that you aren't interested in me like that and I'm over my feelings as well, so…"

Suddenly Molly was roughly pushed up against the counter, Sherlock's erection shoved into her stomach. "Does it seem like I'm not interested in you _like that_?"

She braced herself, her hands on his shoulders as he ground his hips into hers. "Fuck, Sherlock…"

He pulled back slightly, no longer dry humping her, but still in contact with her. "And I'm aware that you're over you little crush, but that doesn't mean that you don't still want me. There's a big difference in romantic interest and sexual attraction. I see this as an opportunity. An opportunity to explore each other. You cannot see other people until we resolve this, Molly. This way you won't have to give up sex to help insure your freedom and gainful employment."

She was quite impressed that the man could carry on such an intelligent conversation when so much of his blood supply had been diverted to his penis. "Sherlock," she said as she feebly pushed against his chest, barely moving him a couple of inches. No matter how tempting the offer, she needed to put a stop to this, now. "I really don't think this a good idea."

"Why not?"

 _Where do I start?_ "First off, this whole thing is complicated enough without adding sex to the equation, don't you think?"

"I don't agree; I think it's quite simple, actually."

"Did you sustain a head injury whilst dealing with Moriarty's network?" she asked incredulously.

He moved his hand to his hips, but didn't give up an inch of his position. "And people call me a drama queen."

Molly saw the opening and tried to take it as she casually moved to the left to get away from him. She made it as far as the end of the table and for a couple of seconds thought she was actually out of danger (the danger being letting Sherlock strip her of his dressing gown and have her on the countertop).

Then suddenly he was behind her, one arm around her middle. "Molly," he whispered into her ear. "Why are you fighting this so hard?"

That was an excellent question. Taking a deep breath she tried to relax, then she tried to imagine letting herself just enjoy meaningless sex with… Sherlock Holmes... NO! "Tell me why you want it so damn much."

He didn't speak for several seconds, just held her back against his chest. "I told you that day in your office, _wife_ , I know the _real_ reason you and Tom broke up."

Molly gasped. Bloody hell, it all made sense now in some strange, perverted way. "How in fuck's name could you possibly know that?"

"Tsk, tsk. Such language. Might have to bend you over my knee again. Though in your case it's not much of a punishment, is it?" He moved a piece of damp hair away from her neck. "If I let go will you sit and talk to me like the grown-up woman that you claim to be?"

She bristled at his tone but nodded nevertheless. When Sherlock let go of her, she started to pull out a chair, but he stopped her.

"The table, Molly. If you don't mind," he said.

"What do you mean? Sit _on_ the table?"

"Please." He nodded.

Molly thought for a moment. She was wearing naught but a silk dressing gown and this idiot wanted her to sit on top of his kitchen table. "Why?" she asked.

"Christ, you never used to ask this many questions," he grumbled, losing his cool for the first time. "Because I asked it, isn't that enough?"

Molly squared on him, putting her hands on her hips, completely ready to give the git a piece of her mind when she saw it: he looked vulnerable for a split second before the mask of indifference once again was in place. _What the hell happened to you?_ she wondered as she turned and started to hoist herself up. Suddenly Sherlock's hands were on her hips and she let out a graceless yelp as he positioned her, evidently, where he wanted her.

"There. Was that so hard?" he asked as he ran a hand through his hair, then paced away mumbling, " _No wonder Tom couldn't manage_ …" the rest was inaudible.

"What was that?" she demanded.

He whirled to face her. "I said: no wonder Tom couldn't manage to dominate you!" He paused. "Good God, Molly, I know you're worried about… everything, but I'm trying to help you the only way I know how!"

She stared at the man, mouth agape, trying to process what he just said as ice seemed to suddenly flow through her veins. "You mean this is some sort of… of a pity… spank?" she sputtered.

"A what?" His face was screwed up in a nearly unattractive expression. He threw his hands in the air and started to turn around, but didn't. "This is why I can't deal with relationships! Sex? Sex I can do. But this? This is madness!"

"Well, what the hell am I supposed to think, Sherlock? You show up out of nowhere, offering to marry me and save me from certain doom…"

"You mock, but there's doom, Molly. Trust me."

"We barely speak for weeks and then all of… _this_!" She waved her hands in the air, unaware of how her gown gaped open at the gesture. "None of it makes a damn bit of sense."

Sherlock closed the distance and loomed over her, somehow, since they were just about the same height with her position on the tabletop. "Did it never occur to you that perhaps I simply wanted to enjoy the benefits of our union and _perhaps_ I've been trying to give you something that you lacked in your last relationship?" His voice was suddenly dripping with sexuality. He slowly untied the dressing gown and Molly couldn't find a good reason to stop him. "Passion. Excitement. The unknown." He threw it open. "An honest to God orgasm?"

A whimper escaped Molly's lips, completely against her will. "You don't find me attractive," she said through gritted teeth, trying to fight the arousal in her body.

He took her hand and placed it on his erection. "What do you make of this, then?"

She never took her eyes off his. "Involuntary response."

Chuckling, he said, "I've misjudged you, Molly. I really didn't think you'd be this stubborn." He trailed a finger across her clavicle, between her breasts and all the way down her stomach. When he reached the damp curls at the apex of her thighs, he stopped. "This isn't over, but you might want to cover up."

"Why?" she asked breathlessly.

"Because…"

Just then there was a knock on the door of the flat, followed by Mrs. Hudson's trademark ' _Yoohoo'_ and Molly scrambled to cover herself. Difficult to do since Sherlock hadn't moved an inch.

"Sherlock, your brother's here. Oh!" the older woman gasped, covering her eyes, as she walked into the kitchen to find Molly and Sherlock in what must have appeared… well, there was no denying how it looked.

"Ah, enjoying married life I see, little brother," Mycroft commented, though he was careful to avoid looking at his scantily clad sister-in-law.

Molly jumped down and turned her back on the pair as she tied her gown.

"Thank you for safely delivering Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson. Those stairs can be difficult for a man of his stature," Sherlock said to his landlady.

Trying to maintain her dignity, Molly clutched the dressing gown closed and held her head high. "Mr. Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, if you'll excuse me…" She moved past Sherlock and the older man and woman without so much as looking at either of them.

Just before she got to the stairs she heard Sherlock say, "Do consider what we discussed, _dear_ ," from behind her. She didn't even pause, just kept walking.

* * *

If _you've never had a cronut, you must. You simply must! It's like a sweet, flaky little piece of heaven. I know we've only seen things from Molly's POV, but that will soon change. Chapter 4 is ready to go and I'll post it in a day or so. Please keep the reviews and comments coming. They_ absolutely _inspire me. Thanks so much ~Lil~_


	4. The Weight

_Oh, Lord, this is one of my all time favorite songs. It's just perfect. Okay, I'll calm my hippie self down now and get on with the fic..._

 _Thank you all for your support I am having so much fun with this story. Again, remember my warnings and appreciation._

 _I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **Chapter - 4 - The Weight (The Band)**

"You have the most atrocious manners I've ever witnessed in my life," Mycroft said as he sat down. "And don't forget I have regular meetings with the Americans."

Sherlock turned to his landlady and said, "Tea, Mrs. Hudson, and I do believe my brother's blood sugar is low. Some of your chocolate biscuits would perhaps be of assistance."

The older woman looked between the brothers, bristled, then left the room in a huff, mumbling something about not believing she was agreeing with Mycroft Holmes of all people.

Sherlock sat down across from the other man and waited. It was a game as old as their relationship itself. One of them would break. Neither of them had by the time that Mrs. Hudson had returned with a tea tray laden with snacks.

"You two haven't said a word since I left, have you?" she asked after unloading her burden.

"He's the one who showed up at my flat, unannounced… he can sta…"

"This was just delivered." Shaking her head, she handed Sherlock an envelope. "I don't know where your mother went wrong with you two, but someone should have a chat with her about how you both turned out."

"I'm sure she'd be fascinated to hear your views on the subject, Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft drawled.

"You two should start a support group with our former teachers and Myc's housekeeper of the week." Sherlock gave the man a smug smile.

"Molly was absolutely humiliated, Sherlock! How could you?" she scolded.

"My wife and I were in our home, doing as people tend to do _when alone._ You two are the ones who barged in…"

"You heard my car when it turned onto Marylebone Road, Sherlock. That entire display was intentional. Even Mrs. Hudson knows that," his brother interrupted.

"It was certainly _not_ intentional. We were in the middle of something," he spit at his brother, then turned his attention to his landlady. "Was there anything else you needed, Mrs. Hudson?"

She turned to leave. "Back from the dead, you'd think he'd be a bit more thankful about it…"

The brother's stared at one another for nearly two minutes before Sherlock spoke. Holding up the envelope he asked, "I assume you're here because of this?" They needed to get to the matter at hand; it was the only reason he broke first. Sherlock opened it and looked at the photos of Molly entering St. Barts.

"Am I prone to social visits?" Mycroft responded.

"Any ideas who's doing this?"

"None… yet."

He didn't believe that for a second, but played along nonetheless. "Are you even trying? It's not exactly top-level priority."

The older man sighed. "Miss Hooper saved your life, Sherlock. I am aware that we owe her a debt. I have no intention of letting this witch hunt continue."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side and sneered. "How very altruistic of you."

"I am not John. I'm not going to be petty because I wasn't included in your little magic show."

The younger Holmes laughed. "Of course, because pettiness is an emotion."

Mycroft rose. "I'm on my way to see your attorney. This newest development must be made known." He turned back once he reached the doorway. "They'll be phoning her soon. You might want to prepare her."

And with that, he was gone. Sherlock stayed seated in his favourite chair, thinking.

 _So it is happening._ There was no stopping it now. "Damn," he growled.

Someone was coming after the Holmes men and using Molly as the means to do so. When his brother had suggested he marry Molly, Sherlock knew it was purely for his benefit (and Mycroft's as well). He wasn't delusional enough to think that the man was _actually_ trying to help his friend ( _'... we owe her a debt' indeed)_. But now that things had started falling into place it seemed that his wife was the one in _real_ danger. Though he was sure that he'd created the problem by marrying her.

Sherlock had blindly accepted Mycroft's suggestion as a good idea. Now he was convinced that he'd been a fool.

None of this should be happening. He was supposed to have been welcomed back into London with open arms. Molly's part should have gone largely unnoticed, forgotten. But for the fact that this unknown party had taken an interest in the undoing of Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock was convinced, all would have gone according to plan.

He didn't think it was a private citizen. What average everyday person even knew who his brother was? He had only one person of interest: Charles Magnussen, a magazine mogul who dabbled in blackmail, but this wasn't his style. Otherwise, he'd not been able to uncover an ounce of information, so that meant one of two things: it was someone within the government or someone within the government was covering up for them.

The preemptive strike of marrying Molly had played right into their hands, shown Sherlock's weak point, as it were. It was a tactical error, plain and simple, one made by both he and his brother. In the end it didn't really matter; it would have come down to Molly at some point, he was sure. She had signed Sherlock's death certificate, she'd put her professional name on the line to state that he was indeed dead. Marrying her would most likely keep her from prison, even if it made her job more vulnerable. At least this way she and Sherlock could protect one another, to some extent.

Onto the problem of Molly herself. This morning had been yet another mistake, Sherlock could admit, if only to himself. She needed a firmer hand, it seemed. And after he gave her the envelope that lay on his desk, he was certain she'd need him even more.

This whole thing was a matter of repayment, only _slightly_ complicated by the fact that he indeed had changed in his time away. As he was preparing to return to his life, having completed his self-appointed mission, he found himself somewhat obsessed with all things Molly Hooper. _It happened long before you prepared to return, just admit it,_ a voice in his head spoke up, but he ignored it.

She had saved him. When everyone else was doubting him, her faith in him hadn't wavered even the slightest bit. And when he had explained the plan, what it would mean for her, she had looked him in the eyes and agreed without hesitation. Even John Watson offered up protests when Sherlock came up with crazy ideas, but not Molly. This went far beyond some schoolgirl crush. In that moment he saw her strength, her spirit; he saw someone who he'd very nearly overlooked and vowed to himself that he never would again.

She never really left his thoughts for three whole years. _That wasn't so hard, was it?_

When he contacted his brother just before his return, Mycroft advised him that he'd been receiving threats and that Sherlock's return would complicate things, at the very least. The older Holmes was never a part of the plan. Sherlock had not contacted him the entire time he'd been away though he knew that Mycroft would have figured things out at some point, most likely after the first group of 'bad guys' were hand delivered to him by the Americans. He hadn't kept his brother out of the loop as a kindness; no, he simply didn't trust him. Mycroft had sold him out to James Moriarty all in the name of Queen and Country. This time he'd been completely on his own.

Well, completely on his own once he left the States. Sherlock's first order of business after his 'death' was to make contact with Neilson, the CIA arsehole he'd tossed out the window for roughing up Mrs. Hudson. It was shockingly easy to convince the American to see him. Once he had a very small group of CIA officials in a room, they were practically salivating at the chance he was giving them.

Perhaps that was what had brought on the change in Sherlock. Before his confrontation with the criminal mastermind, he had told John that _alone protected_ _him_. Though he was planting a seed in his best friend's mind, he _had_ meant it… at the time. But after three years of doing things on his own, he knew one thing for certain: he didn't want to be alone again.

So, onto Molly…

"Sherlock?"

He opened his eyes and looked up to see his wife, now dressed, standing in front of him. "I have to go into work for a while. Not sure what for, but Mike just phoned…"

Jumping up and startling Molly, Sherlock said, "Remember everything we've discussed."

"Yeah, I'm not an idiot. I kept your secret for three years, remember?"

Sherlock grabbed her by the shoulders. "Our secret."

"You've been so… I don't know, odd since..." She tried to shrug out of his hold, but he held fast.

"I'll be here when you get back, Molly. Promise." He finally let go.

"Yeah, okay." Giving him a strange look, she left the flat.

o0o0o0o0o

His next visitor was a welcome change from his annoying brother. Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson was out at the shops, though Sherlock was fairly certain that the woman standing in the doorway was quite aware of where his landlady was at the moment.

"Mrs. Watson, you're looking well," he said as Mary walked in, stomach first.

She smiled brightly. "It's been too long, Sherlock." After a kiss on the cheek, she sat down heavily onto the sofa. "Offer a pregnant lady a drink?"

"Of course. Tea?"

"Cold water, please."

Returning with the water, Sherlock pulled up a chair and sat across from her. "So, John hates me. He didn't take the news well?"

Mary sighed. "No. If it's any consolation, he hated me for a while too. Sometimes he still does."

"Then you shouldn't have told him."

"Trust me, it would have been worse if I hadn't." She took another drink of water. "I'm not actually here to talk about John or the beating, if you can believe it. He deserved it for the things he said to Molly."

"I agree."

"I'm here to talk about your wife."

He should have seen this coming.

"It'll take some time, but John _will_ come 'round. He doesn't like being deceived. Molly… you need to tell her about me, Sherlock. If you don't, I will."

Standing, Sherlock paced across the room. "It's not that easy, Mary." He turned, one eyebrow raised. "By the way, _Mary_?"

"What's wrong with Mary?"

He smiled and shook his head as silence descended on the flat. There was nothing wrong with Mary, of course, but he knew her as Robin, an American CIA officer. A friend. This Mary, though not altogether different, was not entirely the same either.

"What's going on with Molly, Sherlock?"

"How do you mean?"

"What _is_ this marriage, exactly?" she asked in her all-knowing sort of way.

"Protection," he answered. And it was… wasn't it?

"Mmhmm…"

"She'll be back soon, so…"

"That's my cue." She put her glass on the coffee table and Sherlock hurried over to help her up. Once standing, she said, "He misses you, you know."

"He misses the adventure. But he needs to apologise to my wife."

"I think you got that point across this morning," she said with a smirk. Patting his cheek, she smacked him a little too hard to be affectionate. "Be good to her. Don't mess her about, you hear me?"

"My, you take your job seriously."

"It was only a job for about a month before I fell in love with both of them," she said before walking out of the flat.

o0o0o0o0o

Molly arrived back not ten minutes after Mary left. She was in tears.

"I've been sacked!" she said as she walked into the flat, tossing her bag across the room. "Oh, they called it a suspension. But let's face it, I'm done!" Sitting down on the sofa, she buried her face in her hands.

Even though he'd known this was coming, it didn't make it any easier to witness. As he sat down next to her, Sherlock placed his hand on her back and rubbed. "I'm so sorry, Molly. This is not your fault."

"Of course it is! I could have said no!"

"I put you in this position, blame me." He pulled her into his lap and held her tightly. "Or better yet, blame Mycroft. It's actually _his_ fault."

Molly pulled away. "What are you talking about?" It almost seemed like she hadn't noticed that she was now perched on his thighs. "How is this your brother's fault?"

She was too upset, he didn't want to unload information on her whilst she was already distraught - and there was no way he was showing her those damn photos any time soon. Unfortunately, he wasn't sure how to deal with such emotions; back rubs and spankings were just about the limit of his knowledge on providing comfort. _Have to work on that,_ he thought. "Would you like something for your nerves first?"

"No, Sherlock! I don't want any drugs! Just tell me what's going on!"

He nodded and moved her back to the settee. "Mycroft warned me just before returning that someone had taken an interest in me, even in death, apparently. After three years, that seemed… strange. I had only just contacted him, he wasn't aware of my continued survival, you see."

"Why? I assumed he was part of the whole plan."

"I didn't trust him, Molly. He and Moriarity... " he sighed. "That's for another time." Standing, he shoved his hands into trouser pockets. "It seems that someone is trying to bring him down, using me as the means. He suggested that we marry in order to help each other, as I explained before."

She looked thoughtful for a moment. "He thought that under pressure, I'd testify against you, didn't he?"

"I… yes."

"And now, I'm on this person's radar and… damnit!" She stood and paced in the opposite direction.

"Molly…" He started after her.

She whipped around. "But _you_ knew better, Sherlock! You _knew_ I'd never do that!"

"Of course I did. But Mycroft…"

"Played you," she interrupted, a shocked look on her face.

He didn't blame her; it was completely out of character for him to let anyone - even his brother - get the drop on him like this. It gave him an uneasy feeling that his acquiescence to Mycroft's suggestion of the marriage had some hidden meaning.

"And me, apparently," she continued. "He used what he _thought_ was my feelings for you as a means of manipulation! He… he thought this would give me hope - make me even more pliable."

Sherlock shook his head. He had already figured this out, of course, but the realisation had come too late. His brother had very little use for human sentiment, unless he could wield it as a weapon.

"I'm jobless and possibly going to prison!"

Sherlock moved quickly, taking her by both hands in his. "I'll never let that happen, Molly, you have to know that."

"So is…" She waved her hand in the air. "... all this why you're suddenly treating me like I'm an _actual_ woman?" she asked coldly.

"No." He moved closer. "I explained my motivation this morning."

Molly tried to remove her hands from his, but he wouldn't release her. "Let go, Sherlock!"

"No."

"Why?" she asked as she stopped fighting him.

He moved his hands to the sides of her face. Using his only means of comfort (distraction, really), he licked his lips and infused his voice with as much sensuality as possible. "Because you really don't want me to, do you?"

Her eyes were moving rapidly across his face and filling with tears. Finally, she whispered the answer that he already knew, "No. I don't."

Just before his lips descended - their destination unknown even to him, though he was focused on her pert mouth - Molly stopped him, her hand gently pushing him away. "I have questions, Sherlock."

He nodded. "I know. And there's a lot more that I need to tell you. But let me take care of you first, Molly."

"Why?" she asked again.

 _Because I need this even more than you do_ , his mind answered. "Because…" he tried to find the words, but they wouldn't come.

Molly, of course, always seemed to know when he needed her the most. "It's okay," she said, anxiety written on her pretty face. "What do I do?"

He smiled and took her hand. "Trust me," he whispered as he led her to the bedroom.

* * *

As _you can imagine, there is smut on the way. So, we have some hints of what's going on with John and "Mary". Like I said in my original A/N, I've taken seasons 3 & 4 and made my own changes. Please keep the comments/reviews coming. I absolutely love hearing from you all! ~Lil~_


	5. Whipping Post

_Thank you for all my reviews, including the guests, wish I could respond._

 _Please remember my original thanks and warnings. Also, keep in mind that the chapter titles **are** important (and sometimes cheeky)._

 _I own nothing, including the single line from The Reichenbach Fall*. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **Chapter 5 - Whipping Post - (Allman Brothers Band)**

Molly's life couldn't have taken a stranger turn. She felt like Alice and this was one hell of a Rabbit Hole. Ten minutes after following Sherlock into his bedroom, she found herself naked, wrists tied to his bed and more than a little apprehensive. She was also blindfolded.

"You must relax, Molly," he said from somewhere to her right.

 _Easy for you to say, arsehole!_ She took a deep breath and attempted to 'relax'. Even though this was something she wanted, _had_ wanted for a while, giving Sherlock Holmes control of her body - her pleasure, her pain, her orgasms - was much easier said than done. It made asking Tom to tie her up and spank her look like a walk in the park. He had been disgusted and she had been mortified, but somehow this was worse.

She hoped it got better.

She couldn't make her brain stop. What did Sherlock see when he looked at her naked body? What was he deducing? She knew she'd gained some weight after ending her engagement. _God!_ Should she have groomed- exfoliated?

"You're still thinking too much, Molly. I'm not even going to start until you let go at least a little."

 _Fuck! Okay… let go…_

She heard him walking around the room; a drawer opened, closed. Then she heard him strike a match and smelled something. A candle, of course. _Oh… it's nice. Lavender, maybe?_ Taking several more deep breaths, she felt her body start to relax as she concentrated on the scent alone.

The bed moved and she felt his hand on her ankle, stroking slowly upwards. Oddly, she didn't tense. She just felt. The hand moved to her thigh, dancing higher, spreading her. She thought he was going to touch her centre, but he didn't. His body was suddenly next to hers, pressed up against her side.

He was still fully clothed. The bastard!

His hand moved to her stomach and his face was near her left ear. She could feel his breath on her cheek.

"I have a general idea of what it is you want, of course, but I still need to test some things out. If you want me to stop, simply say 'red'. Okay?"

"Red," Molly said, feeling much more relaxed from the candle and soft hiss of his voice.

" _Good girl_ ," he whispered then kissed her shoulder. "Pain is one element, obviously, but what about humiliation? Does that excite you, Molly Holmes?"

"I - I don't know," she admitted.

"Honesty is very important; I'm glad you seem to understand this already." As he spoke, his hand continued to softly caress her stomach. "Obedience is another important part of the equation. When I ask something of you, you must obey me."

"Don't I always?" she said absentmindedly.

He chuckled. "I mean in these situations, Molly. Don't get cheeky."

She almost explained that she wasn't being cheeky, just honest, but then his hand moved to her breast and started to knead and all thought seemed to escape her.

" _Lovely,"_ he whispered. "You've put on four pounds... and in the _most interesting_ places, no less." She had no time to worry over his observation as suddenly she felt his lips on her nipple and involuntarily arched up into his mouth. Sherlock hummed approvingly before biting down just hard enough to hurt. The pain wasn't excruciating, but it was uncomfortable.

Molly's mind was not her own. It felt like her nipple and clit were directly connected, as they throbbed in unison. "Please," she begged.

His hand found her other breast, pinching and pulling her nipple. Though she wanted him to touch her clit, she couldn't deny the pleasure he was bringing her at the moment. He switched, moving his mouth to her other breast and his hand to the one that had just been in his mouth. The process was repeated.

Then, suddenly, he was completely gone. His lips, his hands, his body. Gone.

"Wha…"

"Patience, wife," he said from beside the bed.

Again, she heard him opening a drawer, then felt him returning to the bed, this time between her legs. After what felt like several minutes, but was probably less than sixty seconds, Molly felt something touch her stomach. It was soft, supple.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked.

"No."

"You've seen me with one before. _Think hard_." The object continued to her breast, teasing her erect nipple.

Her mind raced until she finally found a memory from many years before. She couldn't stop the smile from forming on her lips. "A riding crop?"

"Very good, Molly. For that, you get a reward."

The tongue landed in a soft slap on the inside of her left thigh, causing Molly to gasp then moan.

" _Gorgeous_ ," Sherlock said with a sigh. "More?"

"Of course."

Her right thigh lit up with pleasure/pain as he struck her with the crop, then several spots bloomed across her stomach. His strikes to her breasts were softer, but nonetheless pleasurable. The tongue returned to her thighs, harder this time, causing her to writhe. Finally, he brought it down on her wet cunt once, then back to her thighs. Sherlock then jerked her legs further apart, spreading her wide. She could feel that he was moving, but had no idea what he was doing. Then she felt his warm breath ghost over her folds.

 _Please, please, please!_ she chanted in her mind. Oh, how she wanted his mouth on her…

But what she got was more movement - the bounce of springs. He was repositioning once again. Where, she had no idea. His fingers danced along her thighs: up the left, down the right.

When he returned to her center, his blow landed directly on her clit. Molly was completely taken by surprise as the crop rung an explosive orgasm out of her.

She shouted his name as she came, trembling and moaning. Distantly, she heard the crop landing on the floor, then she felt Sherlock untying her wrists. He folded her in his arms and draped her in a soft blanket before removing the cloth that covered her eyes.

"Feel better?" he asked.

She finally opened her eyes, but all she could see was the charcoal grey of his shirt. "Much," she said.

"Good, because that's just the beginning."

o0o0o0o0o

Molly woke up after, somehow, taking a nap, noticing that she'd been asleep for about an hour. _How did I sleep?_ she wondered as she sat up. There was a bottle of water on the nightstand; she took a long drink. Once again finding no clothes ( _why do they keep disappearing?_ ), she put on Sherlock's dressing gown and left the room.

Her husband was sitting in his chair, typing away on his laptop. Her intention was to go to her bedroom and get dressed. Sherlock, it seemed, had different ideas.

"Ah, Molly. Sleep well?" he called out when she had made it about halfway across the room.

"Yes, fine, thanks."

"Hungry?"

"Ravenous, actually."

"Good. I'm ordering Thai, if that's okay?"

She nodded. "No case tonight?" she asked, taking a step toward him.

Sherlock smiled as he closed his computer and sat it on the floor. "You're my case at the moment, Molly. Go get changed; I know you're uncomfortable in my robe." He stood and stepped closer to her. "Hopefully that will change soon."

 _I doubt that._ "Nothing too spicy for me, please," she said as she practically ran up the stairs.

* * *

Sherlock couldn't help but smile as he watched his wife's retreat. He had missed her, _wanted_ her, whilst he was away - there was no denying it whatsoever - and though surprising, he was finally resolved to the fact. Being with her almost daily only served to reinforce his need. It was a testament to his strength that he had managed being home for more than six weeks before touching her.

Thankfully, Molly had fallen asleep on her own this time. She didn't seem to appreciate being drugged and he absolutely had to take care of himself after tending to her needs. He hadn't masturbated so much since he'd discovered his penis did _tricks_ in early adolescence. There was nothing for it; he had to ease her into the situation and sex would have to wait. This was about her, wasn't it? He kept telling himself that it was and that seemed to appease his conscience for the moment.

Knowing Molly the way he did, she must no doubt be wondering where he'd gotten his extensive knowledge of the world of D/s. The answer would surely surprise her.

Sherlock had deduced Molly's interest in this type of play within two months of knowing her. There had been several clues, one of which was her natural ease with his barked orders. To others, it probably seemed like the pathologist was weak and cowering - but he saw the truth, when he cared enough to look.

 _Submissive,_ his mind had whispered to him, calling on some heretofore unknown need deep inside and tempting him to push her further.

Even in the lab (though not so much in the morgue - the morgue was _her_ domain and she was not to be crossed on her turf) she rather enjoyed doing his bidding, especially when he demanded it. When he'd tell (not ask) her to do something, she'd flush, her little tongue popping out to moisten her lips. Then there was the way her breath hitched when he stood too close, always straightening his spine, trying to appear even taller than he was, not difficult with their height difference. On several occasions, he'd observed her worrying her bottom lip between pearly white teeth as he verbally eviscerated some idiot. Only if they deserved it, however.

But her biggest tell was the riding crop incident.

No woman asks a man out just after watching him whip a corpse with a crop unless she was picturing herself receiving the blows. His feigned misunderstanding of her request had been very deliberate. At that time, Sherlock had no interest in pursuing any kind of physical relationship. It was also the reason he alternated between false flattery, demands and insults. Keeping her on her toes kept his mind where it belonged: The Work.

His tactic had worked flawlessly until she _saw_ him.

" _... don't just say you are because I know what that means…"*_

He had been his normal dismissive self, trying to shut the woman up whilst he worked on the few clues he had to go on to find the missing kids. But she had persisted. She was strong that night, much like the night she had called him on his bad behaviour at the Christmas party. Molly Hooper was fierce when provoked, kind when someone was hurting, and pliant when given direction.

She was dangerous, plain and simple.

He was, of course, unhappy about having to leave everything he cared most about in the world to hunt down Moriarty's network (though a tiny bit thrilled at the adventure of it). However, he was also relieved to distance himself from the pathologist. That night was the first time he questioned his decision to _not_ pursue anything with her physically.

Once safely ensconced in his new persona, however, he allowed himself to wonder…

As it turned out, there was quite a bit of downtime involved with rooting out a criminal organisation. About four months after he fled England, he found himself pondering the ins and outs of Dominance and submission.

He'd had plenty of vanilla sex in his life; in his early twenties, he discovered the joys of mixing drugs and intercourse. It was thrilling. Until it wasn't, that is. The emotional fallout most people experienced with that kind of intimacy was completely foreign to Sherlock. A few of his partners simply couldn't reconcile themselves with the detached, emotionless man he became afterwards. Not wanting anything _more_ was fine for some people - and exactly what Sherlock was looking for - but after two women he'd been shagging confronted him (at the same time, no less), he started questioning if it was at all worth it.

Shortly thereafter he OD'd for the first time. Mycroft found him (hospitals and their _rules_!) and forced him into rehab. When he came out, there was a small amount of clarity to his mind that he'd been missing.

Drugs - sex: these were nothing but distractions.

While drugs could certainly aid him in quieting his ever-whirling brain (well, certain drugs did), he soon found that working - solving cases, finding the answers - was far more efficient, not to mention productive. He made a silent vow to himself to give up all outside distractions. The Work was all that mattered.

But Molly Hooper was an anomaly, one that plagued him whenever his mind wasn't focused on the Network. All it took was a few clicks and he had a plethora of information at his disposal; the internet was good for that.

Soon, Sherlock's means of coming down from a chase became returning to whatever was serving for a base of operations at that moment and researching D/s. He'd spend hours at his pursuit of knowledge. Some might even have called it an obsession, but he told himself it was simply keeping his mind occupied until the next leg of his mission.

Eventually, when he had gathered nearly all the information on the subject, it suddenly wasn't enough to just _know…_ he wanted more. Some nights he'd lie awake, considering his own likes and dislikes - what might appeal to him in this new world he was discovering - planning out scenes and scenarios. There was a single common theme to each one: Molly Hooper. She had started him on this road and she kept appearing in his mind night after night.

His planning took yet another turn when he finally gave in to the notion that it was Molly with whom he wanted to explore and expand his newfound knowledge. What would she like? How would she want to be touched, teased, punished? How would she respond? Though at this point he didn't consider putting it into any kind of practical use, he allowed himself to fantasise… to imagine the two of them in various states of undress, doing all sorts of sexually adventurous things.

It was an interesting experiment, he told himself, to simply consider all the possibilities. _I'll never act on these… urges?_ Was that was he was feeling? Did he truly _want_ Molly Hooper or was he just so damn lonely that he had fixated on the last person with whom he'd had meaningful contact before leaving his home?

That question was answered when he next spoke to his contact in London. Sherlock had been very careful not to ask about John or Molly the few times he and Robin had communicated. It was too dangerous. But he found himself asking her, in a coded message, how Molly was holding up.

 _Engaged?!_

The word turned his blood to ice then instantly had him questioning his own sanity. What should he care if Molly Hooper was engaged? The relief he experienced three months later when Robin informed him that the relationship was over created even more questions. This time, however, he pushed it to the back of his mind and moved forward with his mission.

He _really_ needed to get back to London.

o0o0o0o0o

As they sat down for dinner, Sherlock made Molly her plate. The look of shock on her face was priceless.

"I said I was going to take care of you, Molly, and I meant it. I expect that plate cleaned, young lady." He poured them both a large glass of wine each, then tucked into his food.

She did manage to eat most of her dinner, pleasing Sherlock to no end. He had noticed her that her appetite had diminished since moving in. He was fairly certain that it was because of him and he had plans on changing that. She wasn't sleeping well or eating enough. If he needed to take control of her daily habits as well as her orgasms, so be it. He had no problem using subtlety or any other forms of manipulation to get his way.

"So," she said, sitting back with her wine. "You said we'd talk."

"You had questions, Molly. Ask away."

"Why is John so incredibly angry?"

Sherlock sighed. "Mary. It's to do with Mary."

Molly looked confused, understandably so. "He's angry with _you_ and _me_ about Mary?"

"He's angry because I sent Mary here to… keep an eye on the both of you," he said, unsure of how she'd take the admission.

"You _what_?"

"I should start from the beginning." Taking the last drink of his wine, he sat the empty glass on the coffee table. "When I left London, I went to the States and contacted a CIA man I knew. Though we weren't friendly, in the least, he was interested in the information I offered him. He introduced me to a group of officers, one of whom was getting ready to retire. Her partner had just been killed in the line of duty - some human trafficking mess - and she felt like it was time." He refilled his wine and took another drink, then stood and walked across the room. "Robin was… not like the other agents. She was interesting and clever and she didn't take my shit."

"Robin is Mary, I assume?" Molly asked.

"Got it in one." He smiled. "After meeting with her for a couple of days, I made her an offer she couldn't refuse. She was, fortunately, looking for a fresh start - something completely different than collecting and analyzing information for the Yanks, which she'd been doing since the loss of her partner. London evidently sounded delightful. She had no family to speak of so she packed up and put herself in John's line of sight."

"She got a job at his clinic."

Sherlock nodded. "Robin… Mary, I should say, is quite good at adapting to a given situation. I asked her to keep an eye on the both of you. I didn't know she was going to fall in love." He smiled. "But then again, I don't think she intended to either."

Molly leant forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "It's kind of sweet if you think about it."

"John doesn't agree."

"Oh, that's why…"

"Indeed. _And_ he's convinced that you knew all about 'Mary's' placement and the entire deception. He's not exactly trustful at the moment."

"And you said John was angry with her...?"

"They're barely speaking, if I understand correctly."

"Poor Mare. I had no idea," she said, looking off across the room.

"What about you? Are you… upset that I sent Mary here?"

Looking back to him, she said, "My God, Sherlock, that's the _least_ horrible thing you've done to me. Of course, I didn't marry her, so…"

"Yes, I do see John's anger with me. You, however… that's another story. I explained the situation to him this morning, but he seemed too enraged to listen. Hopefully, Mary will help him see the truth of things."

"Which is?"

"The man cannot hide emotion; he expresses what he feels every moment he feels it," he said with a roll of his eyes. "It was simply too dangerous for him to know anything. My fake death, Mary, your part. He would have been watched. You? No one was watching you, Molly."

She looked down, suddenly finding the floor fascinating. After several minutes she said, "Until now."

"Until now," he repeated. "I am sorry about your job."

Raising her head, she took a deep breath. "What's the plan, by the way?"

He resisted the urge to smile; he had been doing that too much lately. "The plan is to find who has it out for my brother and take them down."

She raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not going to kill anybody, Molly. Just find their weak point, as they have ours and…"

" _Our_ weak point?" she questioned.

 _Damn_. "I'm Mycroft's, of course."

Molly nodded.

"Yours is your job," he explained, dreading the next part.

"And yours?"

"Well, John would have been the obvious choice, but they seem to know that we aren't speaking…"

"Clearly."

"So… I suppose… it would be… you."

Molly's cheeks turned an alluring shade of pink as she nodded and started cleaning up their dinner dishes.

* * *

Sherlock's phone rang just as Molly finished the washing up. It was Greg with a case. Oddly enough the detective dashed into the kitchen and spoke with her before leaving to meet the DI at the crime scene.

"I'll try to be back soon," he said as he put on his coat.

"O-kay."

"Sleep in my bed tonight?" he asked. Somehow, he managed to sound both demanding and shy at the same time.

"I have a perfectly good bed, Sherlock," she argued as she dried her hands. Okay, the bed was awful and she hated it, but it was… fine.

"I am aware; I bought it." He wrapped his scarf around his beautiful neck. "But I am asking that you sleep in my bed because it is a higher quality and you've not been sleeping well." Then he, of course, had to play dirty. Raising his hand, he gently stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. "Please, Molly. For me?"

 _Oh, you bastard._ "Fine!" She turned and tossed the towel onto the counter, mostly just to get away from him and those damn hands.

"Smashing!" he said as sprinted out of the room.

"I am not even close to understanding that man," she said to the empty flat.

Molly didn't start getting ready for bed until after midnight. What was the point? It wasn't as if she had work in the morning - _depressing thought_. Although it was entirely possible that she was simply putting off getting into Sherlock's bed. Finally, her face was washed, her teeth were cleaned and she was lotioned from head to toe. It could be put off no longer.

Standing next to the place where Sherlock had cropped her to climax just a few hours earlier, Molly and the bed fought a battle of wills. _Oh, why is this so hard?!_ She'd slept there twice already!

Clearly Sherlock was experiencing some kind of breakdown; it was the only explanation. Or… or he actually wanted a sexual relationship with her. _I suppose it could be simply physical_ , she thought as she stared at the bed.

In all their years of acquaintance, Molly had always seen him as a sex object but had a hard time making the connection between Sherlock _and_ sex. She had, of course, asked him out. _God, that was embarrassing_. Then she had tried to entice him with that awful dress at Christmas. _Well, he did notice my breasts, at least enough to insult them._ Again… embarrassing.

She walked around the room, taking the time to observe Sherlock's most private domain. It was somewhat spartan compared to the rest of the flat, much more organised than the sitting room and kitchen. Molly smiled when she took notice of the periodic table on the wall. _How did I not notice that earlier?_ It was the same one that was in the small office in her flat. _Well,_ she thought sadly _, not anymore._

There were books, of course: anatomy, forensic psychology, law and the like. No fiction, though. That made her sad for some reason. Everyone needed an escape. What was Sherlock's? _Spanking your bare bottom seems to work quite well,_ a sexy voice answered.

"Oh, goodness!" Molly gasped as she turned, bumping into the bedpost in the process. "Now who's having a breakdown?"

 _Tea!_ she thought, _I need tea!_ That bought her a little more than thirty minutes and by the time it was fixed and drunk, she was actually feeling a bit groggy. Making her way back into his room, she admitted defeat and crawled into the large, expensive bed. _God, why am I'm suddenly so tired?_

Her last thought before drifting to sleep was that, somehow, he'd managed to drug her again.

* * *

Lord _, Sherlock... She's gonna kill you this time! Please review! As I explained in my original note, I am still finishing things up and your thoughts are incredibly helpful. Thank you so much for reading. ~Lil~_


	6. Cleopatra's Cat

_Okay, first off, sorry about my super stroppy A/N on the previous chapter... Man, I was in a mood. I'm usually a pretty chill girl, but please understand how hard (and long) I've worked on this fic and I think you'll get why I'm a bit touchy about certain aspects of my content. I don't take this lightly. I want it to be good and have written (and rewritten) it for years to that end._

 _Right, so here's chapter six. It's short, but chapters seven and eight are beta'd and ready to post (MizJoely is The Best) and should be up this week. I won't hold them hostage for reviews... but I would appreciate you showing the love... really, I would! I'm not above begging! _

_Remember my thanks and warnings._

 _I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **Chapter - 6 - Cleopatra's Cat (The Spin Doctors)**

She was going to punch him or at least slap him. He had completely forgotten about drugging the tea; it was just a back-up in case she refused to sleep in his bed that night - _and why was_ that _so important?_. It had slipped his mind once he'd received call Lestrade. _Slipping, Sherlock?_ a voice asked. But no, he wasn't slipping, simply distracted. Well, no matter; at least she'd gotten another good night's sleep. _She's going to remove your head from your neck, you know that don't you?_

Picking up his coffee (not tea, certainly not tea!), he sighed as he tried to focus. Though his body was tired, his mind was not.

He should have crawled into bed beside her since he hadn't slept for over forty-eight hours, but he was still too wired from the case. So instead he planned. He had told Lestrade to give him a night off every two days (unless he managed a 9, of course). That seemed reasonable and it would give him and Molly time to play.

Fortunately, he had already placed some orders in the three weeks since she'd moved in (hence the riding crop) and had most of the equipment that he would need (and probably some that he didn't, but it couldn't hurt to be prepared).

He was being upfront with Molly; he had told her what he knew was going on with 'the situation', though not in detail. There was no use in bogging her down with useless information. Once he had a more solid lead, he'd fill her in. After all the emotional upheavals of the day, he had decided not to show her the photos. More worry was the last thing his wife needed.

He had also been honest about his motivation for their physical relationship… for the most part. Oh, he was aware that he was using her - fulfilling some long suppressed need as well as making him feel less alone - but she would benefit, so he felt little guilt about it. Once he figured out who was behind all of this and took care of them, they would divorce and she would take their experiences with her. This would enable her to better know what to look for in a partner. Never again would she find herself tied to some narrow-minded oaf who could not (or would not) fulfill her emotional and sexual needs. At the same time, it enabled him to expand his own horizons. Not to mention, he would file their experiences should he need them for a case in the future.

A win-win, as they say.

As much as he regretted the temporary loss of her job, it would allow them more time to explore. Time management was the key, of course. He would have to spread himself between cases with Lestrade, working on ferreting out the trouble maker with Mycroft and tending to his wife.

 _Wife_.

Sherlock had never once considered marriage. And, of course, had this situation not presented itself he would have stayed single for the rest of his life. But it wasn't so bad, really. If he had to be married to anyone Molly was the perfect choice, all things considered.

She was intelligent and well read. The woman could certainly hold her own in a conversation with him, even better than John. As a general rule, Molly was usually not given to over emotional displays. He couldn't hold the current circumstances against her; it was mostly his fault she was in this mess. She was also kindness personified. That particular quality had always fascinated him about her, though he hadn't given himself much time to think about it until he was away. It was clearly what drew him to her over and over again. Molly was so utterly… _human_. Her quirks, her oddities were just as fascinating as her perceived good qualities. In a social setting, she was self-conscious and insecure, prone to making bad jokes, stuttering and stammering as she spoke. It was so unlike her professional persona. In the lab or the morgue, she was in charge and bloody brilliant. This he understood. He, himself did not like being out of his element. The difference being that he was much more practiced at putting on a front and not letting his unease show through.

And then there was her physical appearance. He could finally, after years of denial, admit that he was sexually attracted to Molly Hooper. His time away from her had proven that. She was petite, he liked her small stature. He liked that he was so much taller than her, so much bigger compared her small frame. There was something about being able to loom over her that turned him on. He could remember getting somewhat… excited on more than one occasion in the lab whilst standing near her, ordering her about; watching as she shivered with arousal, and possibly fear, occasionally had an effect on him. At the time he dismissed it as physical need, a simple human failing. But he understood now.

He _craved_ her response.

Though he had criticised her lips and even her breasts, he could honestly find no fault in her face or her body. She was imperfect, of course. All humans were. But he enjoyed the quirk of her thin lips and had spent the last several days wondering just how they would look plumped up after kissing her for an extended period of time. Her breasts, though bigger than when he had left, were small, but as he found out the night before, quite tasty.

Feeling himself harden at the memory, he closed his eyes and tried to refocus his mind.

Deciding to steer away from her lovely little body for the moment, he considered the subtle change in her personality. She stood up to him more. There was a new fight in Molly that he enjoyed provoking. Yes, he wanted her submission, but not blindly. He rather enjoyed that she was making him work for it. Proximity alone could account for some of it but something about the woman had changed on a fundamental level. Perhaps it was the faith he had placed in her the night he had asked for her help in faking his death. Perhaps it was falling in love with that idiot Tom (or _thinking_ that she had fallen in love) and dumping him when he couldn't fulfill her. He wasn't sure but he did look forward to finding out.

Speaking of the new, more feisty version of Molly...

" **Sherlock Holmes!"**

 _Better gird my loins_.

She came marching down the hall, her hands balled into tiny fists at her sides. Thankfully he was adept at masking his emotions; the urge to laugh was overwhelming. She was wearing fuzzy yellow and blue pajamas, adorned with cartoonish kittens. It hardly made for an imposing picture. Oh, but she was furious.

Walking right to him, she whispered in a low dangerous voice, " _You bloody wanker!"_

He stood, casually slipping his hands into his pockets. "Morning, Molly. I take it you slept well?"

" _Oh… you… I should… Oh!_ " She was stomping in circles.

"Molly…"

"Gonna have to start testing **everything** before I drink it!"

"Molly…"

"The tea, Sherlock! How could you? It's unpatriotic!"

"Molly!"

Whipping around to face him she, she yelled, "What!? What could you possibly have to say for yourself?!"

He placed his hands on her shoulders and gave her the most apologetic face he could muster. "I am sorry. I shouldn't have drugged the tea."

"No, you shouldn't have!"

"What can do to make it up to you?"

"Stop drugging me, for starters!"

"Sounds fair."

She stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest, she looked him up and down. "You look like hell."

He smirked. Old Molly would have never said such a thing. Or she would have, then apologised profusely. "I just got back. A double murder," he explained brightly. "Solved it."

She rolled her eyes. "Take a shower and a nap. I'm going to the shops," she said then turned to leave, adding, "For tea!" before she disappeared up the stairs.

* * *

On her way to the market, Molly got a text from Mary asking to meet her for coffee. She was elated to be in communication with the outgoing blonde once again. Losing Mary had been had been a devastating blow and she couldn't wait to reconnect. Besides, there was no one else she could talk to about Sherlock. Meena, her 'best friend', had completely sided with Tom after the breakup. It was unsurprising, really, since Tom was best mate's with Meena's fiancé, Dinesh. But it still hurt that she could be so easily tossed aside. She and Meena had been close since uni.

Deciding to do the shopping later, Molly sent a text back to Mary and headed to their favourite coffee shop

o0o0o0o0o

"I can't tell you how much I needed this," Molly said as she hugged her pregnant friend.

"Me too," Mary replied, giving Molly's back an affectionate rub as they broke apart. After sitting down, she smirked. "So, you're married to Sherlock."

Molly felt her cheeks flush. "Oh, God, Mare! Can we start with something else?"

"You're no fun. Just promise that we'll get back to that particular subject."

"Promise! So, um, he told me," Molly said, taking a drink of her coffee and cutting her eyes up at the other woman.

She smirked. "I know. I threatened him."

"You what?"

"I told him that if he didn't, I would. It's caused enough problems with John, I didn't want to lose you too." Her friend looked sad for a split second, then put on what Molly assumed was a fake smile.

 _No wonder Sherlock likes her so much; she just like him_. "I'm not mad, not in the least." Molly reached across the table and took Mary's hand. "And John will get over it… won't he?"

Mary nodded. "Sure. Yeah. Probably." She didn't sound convinced.

"You lied for his own good. Can't he see that?"

"Not at the moment." She picked up her tea and took a sip. "He's been sleeping in the baby's room. On an air bed." Narrowing her eyes, she added, "I hope he throws his back out!"

Molly smiled. "There's my Mary."

"Now, what do you want to know?"

"Everything," Molly answered.

Twenty minutes later, Mary had told her all about her life in the States. She'd talked about her family who, like Molly's, was nearly gone. She had explained about working for the CIA (what she could, at least) and her dead partner. Then she told Molly about meeting Sherlock.

"He was brilliant and infuriating at the same time but he dazzled the agents, spinning a tale of psychopaths and criminal networks. He promised us drug lords, smuggling rings and human trafficking kingpins. Frankly, I thought he was probably bullshitting most of it but, in the end, he came through."

"Why did you take him up on his offer? You personally?"

Looking pensive, Mary answered, "Because I knew it would get my mind off of Conley's death. I can't even explain why it affected me the way it did. I really didn't like the man, but he was a good agent and…" She shrugged. "It was time to move on, I suppose."

"And then… John."

"Yes, John. I didn't mean to fall in love with him, Molly. Sherlock had instructed me to insert myself into your lives, not date either of you. But when John asked me out I realised that I could actually get seriously involved with someone without endangering them for the first time in years. I didn't allow myself to think about the long term problems it might cause."

"Why would dating someone put them in danger?" Molly had watched some American programmes about the CIA; she didn't think the job was that dangerous.

"My specific skill set is… unique, Molly. Let's just leave it at that."

Taking her cue, she decided it was a good time to have a chat about the man himself. "Okay, so you want to hear about Sherlock?"

"He's shagging you senseless, isn't he?"

"First of all, no. We have _not_ actually had sex."

"Liar."

"I'm not! Technically we haven't."

Once again, Mary narrowed her eyes. "What aren't you telling me, Molly?"

Now that she was going to have to say the actual words, she was afraid she was going to lose her nerve. But looking into Mary's curious eyes she knew she could trust her. "I, ah, well, when I was was with Tom I asked him to do certain things…"

"He always did seem too vanilla for you. Let me guess, he wouldn't slap you around?"

Molly stared, gobsmacked. _Am I that transparent?_

"Don't worry. I'm _really_ good at reading people. Almost as good as Sherlock and if I knew, obviously he would. So, how is it?"

Shaking out of her shock, Molly said, "Intense. Amazing. Better than I imagined. And trust me, Mare, I _have_ imagined."

They both giggled, Molly looking around to see if anyone had caught onto their conversation.

After about a minute Mary cocked her head to the side, saying, "I miss sex." with a faraway look on her face.

"Oh, sweetness! He'll come around."

"Yeah, but by the time he does, I'm afraid I'll be too big for the makeup shag!"

This time their laughter drew the attention of several other patrons nearby. Neither cared one bit.

o0o0o0o0o

Molly felt better than she had in weeks as she entered 221B. Spending the morning with Mary had been exactly what she needed. On the walk home, she told herself to have more faith in Sherlock. Surely he wouldn't let her actually lose her job, if it was within his power to stop it. Besides, the man didn't like losing. He'd find a solution just to spite the mystery person who was causing trouble.

Unlocking the door, she noticed that the flat was very quiet. _He's still asleep_ , she thought. _Good_. She didn't think the detective had slept in at least a couple of days. After throwing the old tea in the bin, she was just starting to wash out the tin when she heard an odd noise. Filling it with hot water to soak, she turned, picking up a towel and drying her hands. There it was again. It sounded for all the world like a… cat's meow.

As she left the kitchen to investigate, she was met by the most beautifully surprising sight she'd seen in ages…

* * *

 _I don't think it's gonna be any surprise what Molly sees... but she IS very appreciative. Please review (see, I told you I wasn't above begging!). We have many miles to go here. Thanks so much for reading ~Lil~_


	7. Afternoon Delight

_This one is nice and long (that's what she said, sorry, I couldn't resist) to make up for the short one last time. **Guests** : I so wish I could respond, so let me thank you all for your reviews! You rock my world! I'm having so much fun with this fic. As I said before, this story is my baby (with like a three-year gestation period) and everyone's response is making me so very happy! _

_Please remember my thanks and warnings._

 _I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **Chapter 7 - Afternoon Delight (Starland Vocal Band)**

" _Mmmmmm…"_ Sherlock moaned, still mostly asleep but awake enough to know he wasn't dreaming as he felt kisses falling on his face and neck. Someone was straddling him. Someone small and light… "Molly?"

"You... are... _the_... sweetest... man," she said each word between kisses.

He kept his eyes closed and let her kiss his drowsiness away, wanting nothing more than to simply relish her mouth and all the places where they touched. Bringing his hands up to her back, he realised that she was fully dressed. _Mental note: make a rule that no clothes are to be worn in bedroom_. He pushed his hands up her tee shirt and moaned again when he found the warm, soft skin of her back.

As Molly's lips moved to his chest, peppering him with affection and gratitude, his fingers dug into her hair, urging her lower. He was so hard, surely she'd noticed.

Her kisses stopped and he looked down his body to see a disheveled Molly smiling brightly at him. _Nope, too distracted by her cat!_

"How'd you find Toby?!" she asked.

He opened his mouth to tell her the truth, but nothing came out. A distant part of him fought against revealing it to her. "I didn't," he said, reaching down, he pulled her up beside him as he concocted a partial truth to feed her. "I had my homeless network look for him."

In reality, they had just retrieved the cat after a phone call (dressing down) from an annoyed Lestrade. ' _The facial recognition system isn't a toy, you idiot!'_ he scolded. ' _Why am I looking at an alert for a Toby Tabbius, wanted for rodientiaside and possession of Colombian Trip-Nip?'_ He laughed as the irate DI read off Toby's offenses. ' _Whose cat is this, Sherlock? And how did you add fake crimes into the database? My IT guys say that's impossible!'_

Wrapping his arm around her back, he held her closely. "It took them much longer than I had predicted. Sorry about that." It was pure chance that the cat had wandered in front of a security camera in the parking lot of a Tescos, pinging the alert he'd set when he hacked into the Met's system.

She sat up, pushing against his chest and looking at him as if he's lost his mind. "I searched for him for six months, Sherlock! They found him in a matter of weeks! I hope you paid them for all that work," she said, laying back down and resting her head on his pectoral muscle.

"They're well compensated, I assure you. So, am I forgiven?"

Turning, she kissed his naked chest. "Of course you are, you berk! But no more sedatives."

"Agreed." She started to get up, but he held her tight. "And where do you think you're going?"

"I need to go back out and get Tobes a box and litter and food and…"

Sherlock chuckled. "It's taken care of, Molly. The box is in the hall near your room, he has food and water in the kitchen and you should find an assortment of cat toys in the sitting room."

"They did all that? How do I get one of these assistants?" she asked with a giggle.

"They are at your disposal, Mrs. Holmes." He picked up her hand that was resting on his chest and kissed it. "Now, about the lovely way you woke me up?"

Looking at him nervously, she said, "Sorry, I was just excited."

He kissed her forehead. "Why are you apologising?"

"Well, you never let me touch you, I assumed it wasn't allowed."

"You can touch me whenever you like, Molly. Unless I tell you otherwise, of course." Placing her hand on his stomach, he moved it lower, slipping it under the sheet that covered his nakedness. "As a matter of fact, I find I tire of my own hand. So if you're interested…" He released her once they reached the coarse hair that surrounded the base of his cock.

Once again, Molly sat up, propping on her right arm. Her left hand stayed put as she looked at him with wide eyes. "Own hand? You mean…?"

His lips twitched at her unasked question. He had spanked her bottom, fingered her quim and cropped her to an orgasm but she was, evidently, taken aback at the prospect of his self-pleasure. "Yes, Molly. Don't act so shocked; I haven't hidden my excitement from you."

Her hand moved slowly until she reached his erection. It had softened slightly during the 'Toby talk' but was quickly returning to its full state.

Stroking him tentatively, she asked, "Why haven't you fucked me then?"

Sherlock was somewhat surprised by her coarse language, but he didn't allow it to show. Speaking plainly, without shyness or innuendo, would serve them both well.

"My pleasure is secondary," he explained, fighting the urge to thrust up into her hand. He had wanted her since he had returned - okay, perhaps a _little_ longer than that - having her draped over his lap or tied to his bed had only intensified his need, but he prided himself on his control. "Though I make this promise, wife, I _will_ have you." His own words surprised him. At one point, before their first encounter, he had considered avoiding actual intercourse but since _that_ night, he'd been unable to stop thinking about entering her… fully and taking everything he wanted.

Molly's eyes darkened as she shifted, moving lower, her hand still completely wrapped around him. He closed his eyes, cataloguing every sensation.

"And if it's my pleasure to give you… pleasure…"

Opening his eyes, he said, "By all means…"

She released him and moved the sheet from his hips, exposing him to her for the first time. She was still fully dressed and for some reason it made him uncomfortable. "May I make a request?"

"Of course."

"I want to see you… all of you, while you touch me."

Biting her bottom lip, Molly sat up on her knees and pulled her tee shirt off over her head. She then removed her bra and scooted to the edge of the bed before unbuttoning her jeans. Standing, she shimmied out of them and her knickers at the same time. He marveled at how quickly she had become accustomed to being naked in front of him. Once finished, she gathered her clothes and neatly placed them on the chair across from the bed.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in question.

As she walked back and got into bed, she said, "I can never find my clothes after you take them off." She crawled to his naked body and bent his leg out of her way, lowering it once again when she was seated back on her heels between his knees.

Suddenly she couldn't take her eyes off of his cock. Being the focus of her attention caused the organ to jump. _Calm down! You act like you've never had a woman near you before!_ "I always put them in the basket in the bathroom, if you must know."

But she wasn't paying attention to his words, far too busy continuing her visual inspection to comment. Her hands, meanwhile, were getting to know his thighs, moving up and down, gently kneading the muscles. "What do you like?" she asked, the question directed to his penis.

Sherlock very nearly laughed. "What any man likes, Molly. I'm not picky." She snorted but he ignored it, casually putting his hands behind his head, he said, "Do your worst." A blow job was a blow job. _Unless she plans on using her hand..._ He watched her careful examination of his erection. _No, the way she positioned herself, definitely a bl…_

Molly gripped him as she lowered herself and her tongue snaked out to collect the clear liquid from the tip of his cock. His mind was rendered momentarily useless. He suppressed a groan, unwilling to let it be known just how much he was enjoying what was surely only the beginning. She pulled away and smiled at him, moving further up his body, though she didn't release him. Positioning her chest above his pelvis, Molly raked a nipple across his tip before lowering once again to lick the skin of his iliac furrow.

He had honestly been expecting a simple blow job. Really, in his near constant state of arousal she needn't have pulled out all her tricks. That did _not_ mean he was about to stop the wanton goddess that Molly Holmes had just become. The look in her eyes alone was enough to nearly undo him. She seemed like she was about to devour him whole.

Slowly, she dropped a line of kisses on his stomach and thighs before returning to his dick. Wrapping her lips around the tip she worked him deliberately with her small fist. She certainly had a knack. Keeping her grip moderately tight as she stroked him, she soaked his head before taking more of him into her mouth incrementally. He wondered if his size would prove a problem; he was aware that he was slightly above average, but she seemed to be taking it (and him) in stride.

Once she had managed to engulf about half of his member, she pulled away and focused her attention on his scrotum. It then occurred to him that Molly was, quite literally, trying to figure him out. She kissed his sac before taking one of his balls into her mouth and sucking. Sherlock hissed, his hips bucking up without warning. Most of his past partners tended to avoid the bollocks. He understood, hair and all. But Molly seemed to be enjoying herself if her hums and moans were anything to go by. She released him, only to repeat the process on the other side. _God, she's thorough._ During her ball-sucking, her hand had stilled, simply holding his cock at bay. He was starting to ache. As she let him slip out of her mouth, he expected her to move back to his needy cock, but she still had one more surprise for the desperate detective.

She moved fractionally lower, her face disappearing from view; all he could see was the top of her head as he predicted her next move. Sherlock grunted when Molly kissed his perineum. He hissed when her tongue lapped at the sensitive skin. But when she moved even lower, licking as she went, he suddenly found himself panicking. " _Molly!"_ he shouted, causing her to look up. She had been millimeters away from wearing his seed in her hair.

"I take it that's a no, then?" she asked, looking a bit embarrassed.

"No, pet," he said, then took a very deep breath. "Not at all. But it _will_ end our fun, rather quickly, unless I'm prepared for it." _My brave, kinky little wife._ He couldn't help the smile that formed. "Another time?"

She nodded shyly as she moved to once again take his cock in her mouth. Sherlock relaxed. Her mouth was hot and wet and she certainly knew what she was doing. He shouldn't have been surprised, Molly was always eager to please; a true submissive by nature. His hands found her hair, stroking her appreciatively as she made him forget everything: cases, his brother, John, Mary… Nothing mattered but Molly and her mouth and tongue and… _Fuck,_ he was close.

She kept taking him deeper and deeper until he felt the back of her throat. After a quick pause, in which he assumed she was fighting her gag reflex, she took him even further, then back out. His hips were flexing up to meet her as she swallowed him deeply, once again. A tingle at the base of his spine was the only warning he had before his mind whited out. Then he was coming down her throat, holding her head firmly while he shouted his release.

Sherlock's body was boneless as he caught his breath. He was aware of Molly's tongue licking his softening shaft, then all contact was gone. Looking up, he found her staring at him expectantly.

"That was wonderful, pet." She preened at his praise. But that wasn't all of it, and he knew it. "You like being called pet, don't you?"

She nodded, her smile fading just a bit. That's when he noticed that her hand was inching towards her centre. _God!_ She had become so turned on while she sucked him off that she needed to climax. _Who needs cases when I could have this all day, every day?!_ he thought then promptly dismissed. He had promised himself to keep his life compartmentalised and not let regular sex change him. _Breaking your promise after the first time she sucks your cock, Sherlock? Hormonal child!_ That voice sounded far too much like Mycroft, so he told it to fuck off and refocused his attention back on the needy woman in front of him.

Propping himself up on his elbows, he said, "Go ahead, Molly. Give your husband a show."

If he had thought she might hesitate, he would have been wrong. Her performance with his cock, however, had him rethinking _everything_ he thought he knew about the woman who sat naked on the end of his bed.

Leaning back on her heels, Molly spread herself a little wider as she reached between her legs. Sherlock, now almost completely recovered from his mind-altering orgasm, followed suit, sitting up on his knees. Unable to resist a closer look, he moved forward a couple of inches as he watched her slowly teasing her clit. She wanted to enjoy it. _Good_. So did he.

Though unsure in some settings, he was finding this version of Molly much more like 'Lab Molly': confident but also ready to take direction. The realisation inspired him.

"Stop," he instructed and she instantly pulled her hand away from her folds. "Now, touch your tits." Her hands moved to her breasts, cupping them before she gently teased the tips to hard points. _Oh, she wants more,_ he thought. "Is that how you like your nipples touched, pet?"

She shook her head.

"Answer me out loud and call me… _husband_ ," he demanded. Molly never made mention of their marriage, as if it wasn't real. It was understandable, it _was_ a facade, after all. But when in this room - or any room, for that matter - when they were like this, she was _his_. He needed to reinforce this idea.

Molly's eyes widened as she sucked in a breath. "No, husband, it's not."

"Then touch yourself as you like to be touched, wife."

Clasping both nipples between her thumbs and forefingers, Molly pinched. Hard. If Sherlock was correct, she was pinching much harder than he had the day before. _Noted_. She pulled at the taut buds, twisting them roughly, never breaking eye contact with him as she abused herself.

His dick weakly tried to come back to life. _Not now!_ "How does that feel?"

"It hurts. But I like it, husband."

The last word caused another twitch in his groin. "Good. Now stop."

Her arms went to her sides.

"You've been on your knees for quite some time; are your legs tired?" he asked, noticing that her thighs were shaking slightly.

"Yes. My knees hurt," she answered honestly.

Sherlock moved to the side, off of the bed and adjusted the pillows so that she'd be more comfortable for the next part. "Lie down."

She did, lying in the exact place he had just vacated. Sitting next to her hip, he gently stroked her stomach. "Do you still want to come?"

"Yes, _please_ ," she said, almost begging, but not quite.

"'Yes, please.' What?"

"Yes, please, husband," she responded without missing a beat.

"I think it's time we set up some rules, don't you?"

She looked startled, clearly thinking she was well on her way to an orgasm. "What sort of rules?"

He smirked as he stood and retrieved a dressing gown. If they were going to have this talk, he couldn't do it with his cock out. Especially since the traitorous thing was trying to come back to life. Retaking his seat, he said, "First of all, when we're in this room - even if it's just for sleeping - you are to be naked. Understand?"

"All the time?"

"Unless I say otherwise, yes."

Looking pointedly at his body, she asked, "Will you be naked too?"

"Not necessarily, no. But I tend to sleep in the nude, if that's what you're asking."

She looked across the room as if she was considering it.

"I require an answer, Molly."

"Okay, I agree. What else?"

"When we're like this, I prefer for you to call me 'husband'."

"Why?"

"Because I like the sound of it coming from your mouth," he said, emphasizing his point by reaching up and tracing his thumb across her bottom lip. "Unless you prefer 'master'?"

Molly snorted. "Not bloody likely. Husband is fine. What happens if I forget? Will I get punished?" She was trying to hide her excitement at the prospect of 'being punished', but did a poor job of it.

He nodded, hiding a smirk. "That brings us to our next point. Punishment won't always be a rosy bottom; it could be any number of things." Pausing, he let her think on that for a moment before saying, "For the time being, I want to take control of your orgasms... _All of them_."

Her eyes narrowed. "You mean I wouldn't be allowed… _ever_?"

"Not without my express permission."

Molly started to sit up but Sherlock quickly moved on top of her, pinning her to the bed. Obviously taking away her right to masturbate at will was a deal breaker. But he was unwilling to compromise on this particular point. "What's wrong? Afraid you don't have the self-control?" he whispered in her ear.

She struggled against his hold. "No, _husband_ ," she said with a touch of venom. "But it's my vagina! Why wouldn't I be allowed to touch it?!"

Sherlock nipped at her throat. "Because while we are married..." He released her left hand, snaking his right between their bodies until he reached her _very_ wet slit. "... this will belong to me, Molly Holmes." Dipping into her, barely touching her clit, he continued, "It's a small price, pet, I promise never to leave you wanting. And if you need to climax, all you have to do is ask." He found her entrance and slid in one finger.

"What if…" She moaned as he added another digit. "What if you're on a case for days and days?"

"Text me." He kissed her jaw before sitting up just enough to watch her writhe on his fingers. "As long as you ask first and I give my permission, I will always be... generous."

"Oh, God! Okay! Yes, Sher... ah, husband. I agree!"

"Smashing!" He quickened his pace for a moment, bringing her closer to her peak, then quickly pulled out.

Molly looked devastated.

"I do believe that I was promised a show." He brought his fingers to her mouth. "Clean me up, pet. You've gotten me all messy."

He'd been dying to taste her again, even if only on his fingers as he had the first night, but her submission was very important at the moment. With only a slight hesitation, Molly reached for his hand and put his fingers between her lips. When she sucked them clean, even lapping at the webbing between this index and middle fingers, his dick practically jumped for joy.

"Good girl," he praised as he pulled away. "Now, I'd like to watch you come. Are you ready?"

"Yes, husband."

"Then follow my directions and I promise we will both enjoy ourselves."

She didn't speak. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. She seemed to be centering herself. "Touch your nipples again but this time not so hard."

Molly opened her eyes, looking up at the ceiling as her hands moved to her breasts. Just as before she took her nipples and started to pinch, but she followed his direction.

"Let it build, wife. Increase the pressure slowly."

She did, causing a soft moan to escape in the process.

"Look at me, Molly, I want to watch your eyes as you come, knowing that you're thinking about me while you soak our bed." He kept his voice soft and low. She had always had a thing for his voice and he fully intended to use that against her. Once was a time he used it to get his way at St. Barts, now he'd use it to talk his wife to an orgasm. _Hmmm, I wonder if I can make her come from my voice alone. Something to ponder…_

"Now, move your right hand to your pussy but don't touch your clitoris. Just get your middle finger nice and wet." He watched Molly's finger disappear between her folds, wishing he had a better view. If he moved to the end of the bed, however, he knew he would end up with his face buried in her cunt. "Put two fingers inside your hole and fuck yourself, wife, but do not come yet, understand me?"

Her hips were moving up to meet her hand seconds after he delivered his instructions. She fucked herself without shame, never taking her eyes off of him. The moans and needy little sighs coming from her, along with the stunning visual, had finally returned his cock to fighting form. _Why am I fifteen all of a sudden?_

"God, you're such a wanton little thing, aren't you?" he said, leaning closer to her and forcing himself not to take a nipple into his mouth. "Tell me what you want, Molly. Tell me and I'll let you have it." She was about to blow, with or without his permission.

"To come… please!" Though she seemed mindless - lost in a haze of desire and want, she quickly added, "husband," in an urgent gasp.

"Well then come, wife. I want to hear my name on your lips. Say 'Sherlock' when you come on your hand," he growled.

Her eyes squeeze shut as her body started to shake. She bowed upwards, her hand buried between her thighs as she whispered, " _Sherlock_ ," softly, almost reverently.

He gave her a couple of minutes to regulate her breathing before issuing his next command. Getting her attention by gently caressing her cheek, he said, "I need your hand, Molly."

It took her a second or two to realise what he was requesting, then she brought her hand out from between her legs and presented it to Sherlock.

He held onto her wrist and smiled his 'thank you' before he brought her fingers to his lips and sucked. He found no words to adequately describe the taste of her and he'd been trying since he'd cleaned himself after fingering her on the sofa after her spanking. He had always enjoyed the taste of a woman but Molly was… utterly, mouth-wateringly delicious. Closing his eyes, he relished each drop, promising himself he'd drink from the source _very_ soon before releasing her fingers and looking at her once again.

She smiled contentedly as her eyes drifted shut.

Sherlock watched as the woman he had once thought of as an annoyance, then as a colleague, then an actual lifesaver lay naked on his bed, glowing in postcoital euphoria. _I did that,_ he thought. _I made Molly Hooper glow. Look at her… she is… beautiful._ He had never seen anyone so free and open in their sexual desire.

Molly was completely unaware of her allure. She was self-deprecating yet confident in her own way. She wouldn't let him walk all over her, but she had just given him permission to tell her when to masturbate. She was complex, intriguing and utterly... _remarkable_.

She sighed, rolling her head to the side and Sherlock realised that she had masturbated herself to sleep. _At least she can't blame me this time._ He smirked, but continued to study her while he thought about their day.

His plans had gone completely out the window after her delightful wake-up call. That was okay; he could adjust. Hopefully, this experience would help him become more flexible, more patient. It seemed that Molly wasn't the only one who could learn from their time together. _This will be good for me_ , he told himself.

 _She will leave you. When this is all over - when you've fixed your mess she will pick up and leave and you will be alone once again._

 _I knew that from the beginning, you overbearing tosser. Nothing's changed._

 _Is that true?_ his mind asked in a condescending voice _. Then why are you watching her sleep like a lovesick fool?_

 _I'm not, I'm just…_

 _You are playing with fire and you know it._

 _I deserve this! I was nearly killed at least a dozen times in the last three years._

 _So, the truth comes out. This isn't about Miss Hooper at all, is it?_

 _Why can't I have something nice for once?_

 _Child!_

 _Fatarse!_ Sherlock stood and paced across the room, trying to vacate his annoying brother's voice from his head. _And I was in_ _ **such**_ _a good mood!_ When he reached the window, he drew back a fist, ready to punch the wall.

 _Oh, yes. Very mature._

"Sherlock? Is everything okay?" he heard from behind him, reminding him that he wasn't alone.

His minor Mycroft meltdown had very nearly distracted him from what was really important. Drawing a deep breath, he turned. "Everything's fine." He smiled. "You passed out, pet."

"See? You don't have to drug me to get me to sleep. An orgasm will do just fine." She stretched her arms above her head and Sherlock had to look away, lest he tackle her and tie her wrists to the bedposts. "I can't believe I fell asleep again. I haven't slept this much since I was a toddler!"

"I'm a bit peckish, you?" he asked, trying to distract himself from the lovely vision lying in his bed.

"Starving!"

* * *

 _Well, that was... stimulating. Poor Sherlock still thinks he's in control. But perhaps he's a bit closer to figuring things out... maybe? Let me know what you think. I LOVE hearing from you all. Thanks for reading. ~Lil~_


	8. Mr Brightside

_**A little business first:** I cannot take credit for the facial recognition software bit with Toby. I was gabbing about Sherlock having his homeless network find the cat to my husband (saying that I *knew* it was farfetched, but that I frankly didn't care... I wanted the cat back!) when he started laughing and said, "Wouldn't it be funny if he used facial recognition software to find him?" I took care of the rest. Also, I need to thank allthebellsinvenice for backing me up when I wanted to use 'husband' and 'wife' as their main pet names (I was second guessing myself, as per usual). When I decided to try that out, I emailed her, asking if it would work. She was encouraging and enthusiastic. It seems she was right since you're all enjoying that aspect of their relationship. Lastly, a quick reminder: Molly's only suspended. Yes, her medical license is under review, but have faith. She does. ; )_

 _So, we're moving right along and getting back to some plot (but only for one chapter, don't get comfortable! The smut returns in chapter 9). Remember my thanks and warnings._

 _I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **Chapter 8 - Mr. Brightside (The Killers)**

Sherlock had wanted to ask Mrs. Hudson to make them something to eat, but Molly refused.

"We have food, Sherlock, I just got back from the shops!" she protested as she gathered the makings for sandwiches. "I even bought those crisps you like _and_ gingernuts."

He waved her off as he thumbed through his mobile. With a roll of her eyes, she focused on making them a very late lunch, slipping the still too thin Toby bites of turkey and ham as she worked. As she watched him eat she made a mental note to take him to the vet as soon as possible.

Ten minutes later, she carried their plates into the sitting room, handing Sherlock his before sitting in John's chair. Toby followed, curling up on a cushion on the floor, obviously ready to sleep off his unexpected treats. She'd never fed him table food before, but she couldn't help but spoil him after his ordeal. _Where have you been?_ she wondered as she watched him drift off.

"Did they tell you where they found him?" she asked.

Sherlock nodded, but didn't take his eyes off of his mobile. "Galavanting around a Tescos parking lot. They took him to a clinic, by the way. He's in perfect health."

Looking down at the cat, she noted that he did look pretty healthy for being missing for so long. Turning her attention back to the man across from her, Molly studied him. He was intensely focused on whatever he was doing. After a couple of minutes of watching Sherlock type, she asked, "What's going on?"

Glancing up, then back to the device, he finished typing before slipping the phone into his breast pocket and picking up his plate. "John. He wants to meet with me."

Though she didn't let it show on her face, Molly instantly felt a small wave of disappointment. If John was back then how much of Sherlock would she actually get? Part of her felt like she was just a placeholder, filling the gap of companionship and excitement that John had left.

 _Selfish cow! This is what you wanted, remember?_

 _Yes, well, that was before all the orgasms!_

 _Is it the orgasms or his undivided attention that you'll miss?_

 _His attention comes with orgasms!_

Molly was focused on her plate and didn't notice Sherlock watching her.

"I told him no," he said.

She looked up. "Why? If he's ready to meet…"

"You're still owed an apology, Molly. We're _both_ meeting the Watson's for dinner at Angelo's at eight," he said casually before diving back into his sandwich.

 _Hmm, almost a date... if I squint, that is._ Not to mention the apology bit was actually quite gallant of him. "And he agreed to that?"

"Of course."

"What's Angelo's?" He'd said it as if she was just supposed to know what he was talking about.

He smirked as he dusted the crumbs off his hands. "Psychological Warfare. Our first case, remember the forced suicides?"

Molly nodded. How does one forget a case like that?

"I took John to Angelo's that first night when he started whinging about being hungry. It will invoke memories of more pleasant times and action-filled days."

"That's evil," she said with a smile. "Brilliant, but evil."

Sherlock just winked.

o0o0o0o0o

Molly spent most of her day in her room with Toby. God, but she had missed her cat. She couldn't, however, stop thinking about her husband.

 _Husband_.

Up until the night he had spanked her, Molly had prided herself on _not_ thinking too hard about the fact that she was _actually married to Sherlock Holmes_. Her life was far too complicated to be dreaming about the impossible and making more of the situation than it was. And it had been working too, right up to the moment he asked her to strip naked for him in his sitting room.

Even after that, she had tried to stop herself from spending time pondering their relationship, but it was getting increasingly difficult. The addition of the word 'husband' to their sexual games was a therapist appointment waiting to happen. Why was he insisting on that particular word? Molly had read her fair share of erotica, most of it involving Domination and submission, and she knew there was any number of 'titles' available to them or, they could simply use their actual names. Their situation wasn't by any means formal, like some she had read about. They had no contract, just a handful of 'rules', as Sherlock had called them.

He was perplexing and she decided that there simply was no figuring him out.

Toby had flopped himself down on the end of her bed at some point, clearly tired of her obsessively needy petting. She scratched him one more time before getting up and glancing through the wardrobe.

Hmm… an almost date with her fake husband slash Dominate… What to wear? She knew she shouldn't be putting so much thought into it. With John there, Sherlock would most likely not even notice her clothes. He'd be focusing on fixing their friendship. Oh, and also riling John up, of that Molly was sure. The man had a mean streak!

In the end, she decided that she'd dress up for herself, not for Sherlock. It had been a while since she'd gone out to a nice restaurant (at least she was assuming Angelo's was nice) and besides, Mary would be there, being her gorgeous, glowing self. Compared to the beautiful blonde mother-to-be, Molly sometimes felt frumpy and plain.

At 7:30, she walked down the stairs, feeling put together and ready for anything. Or at least that's what she kept telling herself.

Sherlock was holding his violin, staring out the window when she entered the sitting room. He wasn't playing, just watching the street below very pensively. "I'm ready," she said.

He started speaking before he turned around. "I know. Heels, Molly? Are you sure you…" When he was fully facing her, he stopped speaking.

For once, outside of the bedroom, Sherlock was completely unguarded, his face showing every emotion. He was nervous, first and foremost, Molly could easily see that, but he was also surprised, and if she was correct, slightly turned on.

The simple maroon coloured wrap dress was comfortable and stylish. The underwear was… well, 'comfortable' wasn't the right word for it, but it did give her the confidence boost she required. A touch of make-up and a little extra time on her hair and Molly was feeling pretty good about herself.

"You look…" Cocking his head to the side, he seemed to be searching for the right word. "... nice?"

She had to force herself not to laugh. Nodding her head, she walked into the kitchen to check Toby's water dish, really just wanting to give Sherlock a moment after his attempt at a compliment. He hadn't done that except for the occasional word of praise during their 'sessions' since he'd returned. This time it had felt real though, not like a manipulation like in the past when he tried to coerce her into doing his bidding. It was almost... _cute_.

When she re-emerged from the kitchen, Sherlock was standing in the same spot - he hadn't moved an inch - and he still looked confused.

"Lovely!" he blurted out. "You look lovely."

Molly smiled. _Was he working on that the whole time I was out of the room?_ She had a vague memory of him complimenting her bottom that first night, though it was hazy - _probably the drugs he slipped me_ \- it too felt real, not just mindless encouragement uttered in the heat of the moment. But he seemed to struggle with a simple comment on her appearance when she was fully clothed.

"Shouldn't we be on our way?"

He was still staring, but finally shook himself and said, "Indeed," before donning his suit jacket and guiding her to the door.

o0o0o0o0o

 _Well, this is awkward,_ Molly thought, sitting just as silently as the other parties to this strange and strained reunion. Mary kept giving her knowing looks as if she wished they could communicate telepathically. Sherlock seemed completely unaffected, but she knew better. John, however, was so tense Molly was certain he was minutes away from a stroke. His eye was a purple, swollen mess.

Angelo, a lovely and effusive man, had come and gone, having taken their dinner orders and sending a bottle of his best wine to the table.

Now they sat, waiting for the storm.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, John looked up and met Molly's eyes. The man looked crushed, like his soul had been ripped out. _Oh, come on, John. She loves you, you idiot! She didn't want to lie to you!_ Molly smiled; he looked away.

That seemed to be Sherlock's cue.

"John," he said, drawing all eyes to him. "This has got to stop. Mary did as I asked and it was for your own good. You have to forgive your wife."

"Fuck you," John grumbled quietly.

Sherlock sighed and sat back in his chair. "What is this accomplishing, exactly?"

"You all lied to me!"

"We've established that."

" _Don't!_ You don't get to be cocky and self-righteous," John bit back.

"Oh, no, I wouldn't dare. You've got self-righteousness down to a science," Sherlock said conversationally. Leaning forward, he continued, but his voice was less controlled. "You were in danger, all of you. You, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. I made a decision based on the best possible outcome and I stand by it."

"Even though Molly's lost her job?!"

"If you were actually concerned about _my wife_ , you might have offered her an apology already."

John sneered. " _Your wife._ " Then looked at Mary as if he was the only sane person at the table. "Your _fake_ wife who you married after your _fake_ suicide."

Molly was suddenly very grateful for the private room that Angelo had given them.

He turned his hateful glare to her. "Enjoying the married life, Molls? Tell me, is it everything you dreamed?"

" _John…_ " Sherlock warned.

"Of course you've come to her rescue." He turned his ire onto his best friend. "Everything's always about you! Even my fucking marriage!"

Before Sherlock could respond, the door opened and two waiters came in carrying their entrées. Sherlock and John never looked at their food; they spent the entire time staring each other down.

Once the waiters left Mary cleared her throat and said, "Well, this looks lovely."

Molly couldn't look at her food, too enthralled by the former best friends and their staring match.

"While you two have your cockfight, I'm going to eat," Mary said, digging into her meal.

That one almost caused Molly to giggle, but she refrained.

Sherlock looked at Mary and smiled. "I assure you, it's no competition." Then he returned to John. "So it's jealousy, is it?" He picked up his fork and started poking at his pasta. Molly knew he wouldn't eat a bite.

"Jealousy?" John questioned. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's quite simple, really. You're jealous of Molly for knowing my secret, jealous of me for meeting Mary first and jealous of your _own wife_ for being a part of the plot to keep you alive. I'd imagine you're also somewhat emasculated by the fact that I chose a woman as your protector as well as my confidant. Two women, to be exact. That's a bit outmoded, don't you think?" Picking up his glass, he took a large drink of wine and raised a challenging eyebrow.

John was fuming, but he seemed to be trying to compose himself, thankfully. "It's not jealousy, it's betrayal! My wife betrayed me, my best friend betrayed me and Molly…" He huffed a laugh as he turned to look at her. "I always thought you were better than this."

She'd had enough. "Better than what? _You didn't know me._ Before Sherlock's death, you had barely spoken three words to me."

"That's because everytime we were in a room together you could only hear _his_ voice," he said, jerking his head towards Sherlock.

Molly laughed mirthlessly. He _was_ jealous, clearly had been for quite some time. "You're probably right. But even so, don't act like you have some great insight into my character, John. Even after he was gone, you never took any real interest in me. Oh, we spent time together, of course, but you spent the whole time whinging about Sherlock, wavering between hero worship and doubting everything he'd ever done."

"I…"

"I didn't even mind. You were hurting, I understood that. But don't sit there and cast judgement on me like you're some kind of saint in all of this. You're not."

The table fell silent once again.

Mary was still eating. She seemed to be taking everything in stride but, of course, she'd had weeks of John's anger and spiteful words. She was probably used to this.

"Molly didn't know about Mary. I had no contact with her while I was gone. Mary just showed up in your lives, as instructed, and befriended you both," Sherlock said, cutting through the silence.

Dropping his head to his hands, John sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "How am I supposed to trust any of you ever again?"

"There are no more secrets, no more lies," Sherlock offered. "You know everything… now."

John looked up. "Mary says Mycroft didn't know."

"He didn't. I couldn't trust him, still don't, actually," he said, harshly. Then, with an almost imperceptible softening of his expression and voice, he added, "It wasn't because I couldn't trust _you_ , though, John."

And there was John's apology. John's eyes were filling with tears as he stood. "I... need a minute," he said before rushing out of the room.

The three of them watched him leave, then Mary said, "Okay, where'd the rock come from? It wasn't there this morning." She grabbed Molly's left hand.

Molly was momentarily thrown by the change in topic. She'd never met anyone as cool-headed as Mary Watson in her life, and that included Sherlock. Looking down at her hand, she admired the piece of jewelry for a moment. She hardly ever wore the expensive looking ring. Actually, it was maybe only the fifth or sixth time she'd put it on. Frankly, she didn't really know why she'd done it.

"Ah, it's… I never wore it at the hospital; afraid I'll lose it, so…" Molly said, avoiding Sherlock's eyes. He was looking at her - staring, really - she could feel it.

"It's gorgeous," Mary said, twisting her hand to see the ring at different angles. Then she looked up at Sherlock. "An heirloom?"

Sherlock pulled his eyes off of Molly just long enough to glance in the blonde's direction. "John's ready, Mary. Now would be a good time to talk to him." Then he was looking at her again.

Mary laughed softly, then stood. Putting her hand on Sherlock's shoulder, she said, "Thank you," and kissed the top of his head before leaving the room.

Sherlock nodded.

Turning away, Molly took a drink of her wine. "She's very fond of you, Sherlock," she said.

"She loves you, you know?" he said, causing her to look at him again.

And she did. There was something very special about Mary Watson; Molly was desperate to keep her in her life. "Yes. We've become quite close, or had before…"

"This should end it. John knows he was wrong. They'll be fine, Molly."

"I hope so."

Reaching into his breast pocket, Sherlock pulled out his wallet and tossed a couple hundred pounds on the table. "Do you want that boxed up?" he asked, pointing to her plate.

"Are we leaving?"

"They need to talk now that John's feeling less hostile."

* * *

 _So, Sherlock's a bit keyed up at the moment. That should make for an interesting evening. *wink* Please let me know what you think about the confrontation with John. Did he have good reason to be mad? Is he over it? Should Mary pop him in the head? Thanks so much for reading!. ~Lil~_


	9. With A Wonder and A Wild Desire

_This band is one of my son's favorites and I had to ask him to recommend a song (because I wasn't passing up this chance!). He was super excited to share his music with me - probably wouldn't be if he knew_ why _he was sharing. Ah well._

 _Thank you all for your continued support. Remember my thanks and warnings from chapter one. Things are about to get... very naughty._

 _I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **Chapter 9 - With A Wonder and A Wild Desire (Flogging Molly)**

The cab ride home was quiet. Sherlock spent the time looking out the window and tapping his foot; Molly spent it wondering what he had in store for her. Even though they'd just… engaged that afternoon, there was a palpable tension between them. Something was brewing, she was sure of it.

Their sexual play may have started out as a means of stress relief for _her_ , but she had a feeling that _he_ was the one in greater need this particular evening. He was taut as a bowstring, understandably so. Even though things were on the mend with John, Molly knew that the evening had been difficult for the detective. Emotions tended to make him jittery, and his best friend had been a giant ball of 'feelings'.

As they entered the sitting room, Molly turned to Sherlock to ask if he wanted a glass of wine (or perhaps some of his special "calming tea" for his nerves), but never got the words out. Before she could speak, she found herself sandwiched between the man and the door, his lips at her ear.

"Tell me that those are stockings, Molly," he demanded in a low dangerous voice, squeezing her hips as he spoke.

"They are."

He bit down on her lobe, then sucked the piece of flesh between his lips. "And a thong?"

"Yes." She wasn't even trying to be sexy when she dressed (unless it was subconscious) but the dress hugged her bottom just a bit and she didn't want visible panty lines.

He moved his hand from her hip to the doorknob, locking it before stepping back and taking the bag of leftovers (completely untouched) from her hand. "Remove the dress, keep everything else on - including the heels - then come to me." Swiftly turning, he walked to the kitchen, saying casually, "You have been _very_ naughty, wife. Prepare yourself."

Molly didn't hesitate - though her mind was working on what she could have done to earn a punishment. She quickly shucked her dress, tossing it onto the end of the couch, watching as Sherlock returned, removing his suit jacket as he crossed the room to his chair. She followed. His movements were precise and measured as he unbuttoned his cuffs before folding them back.

He smirked, his eyes taking in every inch of her. _Oh, damn… Did I put the thong on_ over _the garter belt on purpose? Okay, so maybe I_ was _trying to be a little sexy_. And, of course, he noticed. She quickly decided that she didn't care. If the placement of her underpants made him that happy… so be it.

"Bend over, hands on the seat cushion, and spread your legs," he instructed.

Feeling herself getting wet, Molly complied, trying to make sure she was at least somewhat comfortable for what she expected to be one hell of a spanking, considering how demanding Sherlock was being.

"How often do you wear my ring, Mrs. Holmes?" he asked, his hands smoothing over her bottom.

 _Oh, shit!_ "Ah, it looks _really_ expensive, Sherlock. I'm afraid…"

The first blow was quite hard, not to mention unexpected, and caused Molly to very nearly shriek. As it was, she managed a sharp gasp instead.

"Brace yourself, pet, they _will_ get harder." Sherlock's hand left smoothed over her back, his fingertips dancing down her vertebrae, as she prepared herself for the next slap. "Answer the question and remember the rules."

 _Smack_.

He didn't give her time to regroup, bringing his hand down on her other buttock seconds after the first.

 _Smack_.

"I, ah... I've worn it several times, husband."

 _Smack_.

"I've seen that ring on your finger exactly five times, Molly."

 _Smack_.

"Are you ashamed of our marriage?"

 _Smack_.

The sound was almost as erotic as the feeling. "No! Of course not!"

"Then, I expect it to be on your finger everytime you leave this flat." _Smack_ "Understand?"

 _Smack. Smack_.

They _were_ getting harder.

"Answer me!"

 _Smack. Smack_.

"Yes! Yes!" _Anything!_ "I'll wear the ring, husband!"

"Once you're warmed up I thought we'd try something new," he said, his tone changing instantly - softening enough for her to know that he was pleased with her answer. Molly felt his fingers toying with the gusset of her insubstantial knickers. "Not quite ready just yet."

 _Smack. Smack._

 _Smack. Smack_.

God, her arse was already on fire, how much more…?

 _Smack. Smack_.

After the last two, he bent over her, his fingers back on her centre. "I can _smell_ you already, you filthy girl," he growled.

She was sure her face matched her backside.

 _Smack. Smack_.

She braced herself for more, but they didn't come.

"Stay where you are. I'll be right back," he said and she heard him stalking through the flat.

Molly's arms and legs were shaky and starting to ache, but they were nothing compared to her sore bottom. She focused on the feeling, the heat, as she took several deep breaths. Clearly he wasn't finished with her arse if he was keeping her in that position.

She could feel herself starting to drift, dancing at the very edge of bliss. It was becoming easier to let go. With every new encounter, Molly found that giving herself over to him wasn't really all that hard. It was actually quite simple.

Hearing his approach shook her out of her semi-meditative state.

"Stand."

Straightening was harder than she had imagined and not much of a relief either. God, she was out of shape; she'd only been there for a few minutes. Sherlock's hands immediately found her hips, pulling her towards him. Her sore flesh reignited as he rubbed the expensive fabric of his trousers against her, but the discomfort was secondary compared to his hard cock grinding into her soft arse. _That_ was far from uncomfortable.

Molly moaned and pushed back, hearing Sherlock chuckle in response.

"Ah, ah, ah… filthy little girls do _not_ get to take liberties. Just for that…" He stepped away and Molly started to turn, suddenly desperately afraid that he was going to stop their game. "Eyes forward, wife." Her head whipped back as his hands firmly grabbed her hips. With a sharp tug, he pulled her away from the chair. "Bend over, hands on your legs as low as you can manage."

She sighed, worried about following his instructions, mostly afraid that she was about to embarrass herself. _I have to start doing yoga again. I certainly have the time._ Molly bent down and clasped her ankles. _Okay, maybe I'm more flexible than I thought_.

Feeling Sherlock's hand on the small of her back, she let herself relax and enjoy the moment.

His hand traveled up her spine then back down; the gentle pressure further eased her into the position. Her head was starting to get light from the blood rush, but otherwise, she felt fine. No, she felt amazing.

"Since I am the first man to have the pleasure of properly spanking your luscious bottom, I can only assume you've never been flogged. Correct?"

 _Flogged? Shit!_ "Correct."

" _Molly…"_

"You are correct, husband," she amended.

"Good girl."

Suddenly, and completely inappropriately, the words 'Flogging Molly' popped into her mind and she snorted. It was an American band she listened to from time to time. Her friends at uni used to tease her about the name.

"Something funny? I assure you I didn't _intend_ to make you laugh," he said, his voice suddenly very serious.

"Sorry, husband. I had a… a stray thought."

"Hmmm… Can't have that, now can we? Stand!"

Molly stood once again, relieved that she no longer had to hold her ankles. The position was really starting to make her dizzy.

"It's a good thing I'm always prepared."

Suddenly, Molly's vision was gone as a piece of soft, black fabric was tied over her eyes.

"Can you see anything, wife?" he asked, his lips touching her left ear.

"No, husband."

"Not too tight is it?" He kissed her neck, then nipped at the flesh. She felt his hands on her back, moving up to her bra.

"It's fine."

"Good. No more distractions, Molly. This is serious business." Though his voice was stern, he ended his statement with a soft kiss on her shoulder. Unhooking her bra, he brushed it off of her arms; she heard it fall to the floor. "Turn around and face me."

Molly turned. It was a little disconcerting moving without seeing what she was doing but she managed.

"Feeling exposed… vulnerable?" His voice came from further away. He was obviously trying to keep her guessing.

"Yes."

Time passed, she didn't know how much. She couldn't hear a thing. The flat was silent but for her breathing. _Where is he?_

"How wet are you, wife?" He sounded like he was standing near the mantel now. The man moved like a damn cat!

"A little," she answered. In truth, she was extremely wet. She wasn't sure why she lied. Thankfully, he didn't take issue with it.

"I'm going to make you love this." Suddenly he was _very_ close. She hadn't even heard him move; was he using magic? His mouth ghosted over her cheek. "Don't worry, pet, I _will_ take care of you."

Molly whined.

"Put your arms behind your back and clasp your hands together. If you can't maintain this pose I'll be forced to bind you."

She whined again.

He laughed. "Oh, I know you'd love that, Molly, but you'll need your arms free in just a moment and I'd prefer not to take the time. You _do_ want to please me, don't you?"

"Yes, husband," she said, her voice almost unrecognisable as she grasped her left wrist with her right hand.

Then he was gone and she felt the flogger brush against her right breast. She gasped. He hadn't struck her hard. As a matter of fact, it felt delightful. Another brush, this time harder against her left. The flogger moved to her sternum and struck her with a little more force. Then again, lower, her stomach this time. He moved back to her each of her breasts, then he paused.

Molly was heaving, panting - just about to ask for another strike, but she stopped herself and tried to slow her breathing. This was heaven; she didn't want to rush it. In her mind, she pictured the flogger. She had seen them before; she knew what it would look like. Knowing Sherlock, it would be fairly plain, unadorned. Black leather, of course, and very high quality.

Her mental picture had helped calm her, but she needed more. She heard him moving around her. The man could move without sound, as he had proven moments before. This was deliberate.

"Your skin is a delightful shade of pink, pet. Painted with lovely little stripes," he said from somewhere on her right. Her head jerked in his direction. "Would you like more?"

She nodded.

"I require verbal answers, wife. You know this."

"Yes, husband."

"Then ask for it. Beg for my flogger and I'll give you more."

Molly took a steadying breath. "Please flog me, husband."

He chuckled. "I don't quite think you understand what I'm looking for, Molly. I want you to… _beg_." By the time he had said the word 'beg', he was nearly touching her. His voice right in her ear, his breath on her throat.

" _Please_ ," she said, trying to infuse her desire into the word. "I need your flogger, Sherlock."

She heard a soft thump and felt his hand on her knickers, a finger wedging itself between the maternal and the crack of her arse. "I'm going to remove these and reposition you."

He moved to her front. "Steady yourself on my shoulders." He tugged her thong down over her hips. Carefully picking up one foot at a time, he helped her out of the garment. "Good girl. I need you on your hands and knees for this next part, wife," he explained, once he was standing.

"But I can't see!"

"And that's why I'm going to help you, Molly. I thought you trusted me," he chastised.

"I do."

"Do you think I'd let you fall?" His fingers caressed her cheek. "You didn't let _me_ fall, did you?"

" _No."_ Tears pricked at her eyes behind the blindfold. She knew he was talking about _that night._

He kissed her jaw. "And I promise to always be here to catch you, darling." His voice was very nearly a whisper. "Hands and knees, Molly." Though he sounded stern, he was still stroking her gently. "I promise that I won't let you go."

 _You will… eventually,_ her mind whispered, but she followed his instructions, lowering herself slowly to the floor. He held onto her arm the entire time. She felt secure, safe. Once in place with her hands on the floor in front of her, she asked, "Like this?"

"Spread your legs further apart and arch your back."

As she did she heard Sherlock inhale sharply.

" _God that's good,"_ he growled.

She started to imagine the lewd picture she presented, but before she had the chance, the flogger struck across her bottom, forcing a startled gasp out of her. It struck again, harder, the tails falling dangerously close to her exposed pussy. Another strike and another. Though she tried to stay still, it was difficult. He struck her again and again, alternating between buttocks, six, maybe eight times. When the tails fell in the middle, _very_ deliberately hitting her wet lips, Molly moaned. If they had fallen just a bit lower they would have hit her clitoris. He was driving her mad.

"You want to come, don't you, wife?" he asked. His voice came from somewhere lower, as if he was kneeling behind her. She hadn't heard him drop to the floor.

" _Please!"_ she begged.

She _definitely_ loved the flogger. He teased her with it, striking over and over, adding just enough pain to her pleasure to bring her to the edge.

" _God, Sherlock, please!"_

Something hit the floor; she assumed it was flogger. And suddenly he was leaning over her, his trousers abrading her hot, stinging flesh. He cupped her wet pussy and she cried out. Working two fingers into her core, Sherlock slowly, _so slowly_ , entered her.

"Fuck, Molly! You _really_ loved my flogger, didn't you? Mrs. Hudson will have to steam clean the rug when we're finished, you _filthy_ girl." His fingers moved as he spoke, his shameful words adding to her excitement.

He was right, though. She could _hear_ how wet she was. It was mortifyingly hot.

"Just listen to that," he said as if he could read her thoughts. "I wonder if she's insured for flood damage?"

The wet slurp of his fingers in her channel continued as did Molly's embarrassment. But somehow, it just revved up her lust. Her heart was pounding in her ears, almost drowning out all other sounds, except of course the vulgar sound of her cunt and Sherlock's filthy words. She didn't even realise that she was grinding back on his hand until he spoke again.

"That's it! Take what you need!" He drove in harder and harder, pressing forward, hitting her g-spot with every pass. "God, Molly, you're so gorgeous like this! Fucking yourself on my hand like a wanton little slut!" He grunted then moaned and grunted again, grinding his clothed erection into her sore bottom. Molly wondered if he was going to come in his pants.

Suddenly his body was gone, but his fingers were not. _Where…?_ Then she couldn't think at all because his thumb brushed against her clit. She bucked into his hand, coming hard, shrieking and chanting ' _husband'_ like a prayer.

Seconds later she felt warm, wet liquid splatter onto her back and bottom and heard Sherlock calling out her name. His fingers disappeared from her core but were suddenly gripping her hips tight enough to burse.

" _Fuck!"_ she breathed. Her empty channel clenched, wanting to be filled at the mere thought of him tagging her with his seed.

Releasing his deathgrip on her hips, he said, "I _do_ believe I've ruined your garters, Molly," then patted the outside of her thigh and let loose a deep and throaty chuckle.

* * *

Oh _, my! So, please let me know what you think (this is one of my favorite chapters!). Next chapter: Plot! You guys are amazing and keep me inspired. Thanks so much for reading! ~Lil~_


	10. Ezy Ryder

_Goodness! First and foremost I owe you all an apology! I am so, so sorry about the delay in posting. RL decided to dump everything on me at once, for some reason. Thank you all for following and reviewing (you too, Guests! Love your comments!) Thanks, of course, to all friends who helped me with editing and research._

 _A little **warning** for this chapter: There is some talk of drugs ahead, mostly within the confines of a case. _

_I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **Chapter - 10 - Ezy Ryder (Jimi Hendrix)**

After giving her a few moments to recover, Sherlock removed the blindfold, helped Molly to her feet, then led her into the bathroom for a bit of clean up. She was a mess. A lovely, _lovely_ mess. Her hair had fallen out of her simple updo and was a tangled mass around her shoulders. She was covered in red slashes from the flogger, though they would be gone soon; he hadn't hit her very hard at any point. But his favourite part, by far, was the congealing cum on her back and arse.

He was loath to clean it.

But he would, of course. It was his job to take care of her and that included _not_ sending her to bed with his drying tag covering her backside. Unless she was being punished; which she wasn't. She had been magnificent.

His eyes fell to the ring on her left hand. _His_ ring. His reaction had taken him by surprise but he was undeniably put off by her reluctance to wear his ring. It wasn't even new information; he knew that she didn't often wear it but it suddenly seemed deeply important that she did. _I got my point across_ , he thought, making himself look away from the accursed thing.

She moved in an almost catatonic state as he removed her garters and stockings. Sherlock wasn't concerned. His wife was fine, just coming down from her high. The flogger had been a huge success. She wasn't in any danger at the moment, just somewhat fragile. She was enjoying the afterglow. As was he.

Propping her up against the sink, he looked at her closely. "Can you stand there for me while I undress?"

Molly nodded.

He smirked and started removing his clothes. Once finished, he went to the shower and turned on the taps. When he faced her again, he found her watching him, staring at his body.

"Enjoying yourself, wife?"

The colour of her face had returned to normal but she instantly blushed. "Arse," she said, looking away.

He chuckled and took her hand, tugging her toward the tub. " _I_ can admit to enjoying my current view, what's the harm in it?" he asked as he maneuvered her under the showerhead.

Molly closed her eyes as the water cascaded over her body. She'd be a little sore from their activities tomorrow. He made a mental note to get her something for the pain as he picked up her shower gel and lathered a soft flannel.

Starting with her neck, Sherlock carefully washed his wife. Molly didn't open her eyes until he got to her thighs.

"Use that," she said, pointing to a different bottle in the corner of the tub.

He set the flannel aside and rinsed his hands clean, then picked up the 'feminine wash' and squirted a small amount on the palm of his left hand.

"Why this?" he asked as he bent slightly and carefully dipped his hand between her folds.

Her eyes closed for several seconds. When she opened them again she said, "It's better… down there. I'm sensitive."

Smiling predatorily, he circled her clit, getting her _nice_ and clean. "You are indeed."

She bit her bottom lip. "I meant that regular soap can be irritating…"

"I know what you meant." He stopped teasing her since his cock was twitching and asked, "Could you turn and rinse for me?"

She faced the spray and Sherlock picked up the flannel once again. He lathered her back, her shoulders and her arms before moving on to her bottom and legs. Once finished, he stood and asked if she'd let him wash her hair.

"Of course I would. Why wouldn't I?"

"Women can be funny about their hair, Molly."

She snorted. "You have the prettiest hair of anyone I know, Sherlock. I doubt you'll mess up mine."

He raised an eyebrow. "My hair is not 'pretty'." At the moment he knew how it would look: frizzed out and puffy from the steam of the shower.

Raising her hands for the first time since they entered the bath, Molly ran her fingers through his damp locks. " _I_ think it's pretty. What's the harm in it?" she said, throwing his words back at him.

Once she had gotten her fill of his curls and had moved her hands to his chest, he tilted her head under the water, making sure it was completely wet. He then worked her shampoo into the roots, scraping his nails against her scalp as he stared down at her. Her eyes were once again closed; she was enjoying his ministrations. Her own nails digging into his pecs was proof enough, but her occasional contented sigh made him smile.

"Time to rinse, Molly," he said, causing her eyes to open. He tilted her head again.

She raised her hands, moving her hair around, making sure all the suds were gone as he reached for her conditioner. They each had different hair care products; his curls took a _special_ kind of care. He had to wash it daily or else he looked like a tramp. Molly's hair, he noticed, was a bit dry and she only washed it every two or three days.

Holding up the bottle he asked, "Ready?"

She smiled and nodded, then Sherlock proceeded to apply the conditioner. Once finished he looked at his bathing partner and noticed a conspiratorial grin on her face.

"Would you like to wash me, wife?" he asked, knowing what she wanted.

"Yes," she answered, picking up his body wash and a flannel.

He grabbed her wrist. "Use your hands," he instructed. Her eyes widened as she poured the soap into her palm. He took the bottle from her, placing it on the shower rack.

Molly's technique mirrored his, to a point. She started with his shoulders and neck, then moved onto his arms before asking him to 'raise them up!' and she playfully lathered his pits, attempting to tickle him. She gave up when she realised that he wasn't ticklish.

"You're no fun!" she pouted.

"Back to business, Mrs. Holmes."

She pursed her lips and grabbed the bottle, adding more soap, then washed his chest and sides. He still didn't laugh; he just wasn't ticklish! Her hands moved around him to his back, then lower, to his bum. She squeezed.

Her little power play was cute until her hands moved to his hips, then lower and lower. She kept her eyes on his as she circled his cock. He was about half hard from watching her wet, naked body move around in the shower and from her arse grabbing. When her left hand slipped lower, however, cradling his balls, his cock started to fill in ernest.

He could see victory in her eyes. They danced with delight as she fisted his dick with her right hand.

Making some very quick plans, Sherlock took Molly's right wrist, gripping it tightly. "You are writing a check, wife, that I'm not sure you can swallow."

Molly giggled. "Are you intentionally mixing metaphors or are you just happy to see me?"

 _Oh, that's it!_ Sherlock, quickly, but carefully, pushed her back into the spray. "Let's rinse your hair and we'll see just how happy you are when I'm finished with you."

She laughed as she tried to wiggle out of his hold.

"You're going to make us both fall and then you'll _really_ be in trouble," he scolded, playfully swatting her arse.

He rinsed them both, making sure Molly's hair was free of conditioner, then helped her out of the shower, intent on taking her to the bedroom and making her eat her words (and his dick) to teach his cheeky, little wife a lesson. _God! Can I even come three times in one day?_ She was giggling as he _thoroughly_ dried her breasts when they heard his mobile.

"Damn," he said, picking through his clothes to find the device. When he found it, he unlocked the screen and opened his messages. _No dick eating tonight,_ he thought with a sigh. "It's Lestrade."

"Oh…"

"Sorry," he said, though he didn't know why he was apologising. He looked down at his mobile, putting together the small bit of information that Lestrade had sent him so that he could start his deductions.

"No big deal."

She was disappointed and so was he, frankly, but he had a case (a seven, by the looks of it) and he needed to get dressed.

"Well, I'll… "

He looked up.

Molly had wrapped herself in a towel and opened the door. "See ya, later, Sherlock," she said as she left the room, letting in a gust of cold air.

o0o0o0o0o

The case was an eight, as it turned out. He phoned John on the way to the crime scene. The doctor met him there, which was fine and expected. John was still licking his wounds, he'd come around… eventually.

"Which pathologist is on duty?" Sherlock asked Lestrade after he'd made his initial assessment. He had four theories but needed the autopsy report and tox screen.

"Mills," the DI answered, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes and groan. "I know, I know. He's an incompetent idiot and… _not_ Molly. I've heard it all, Sherlock. I haven't forgotten the LaGrange incident."

Sherlock huffed.

"He's just filling in…" the DI trailed off, a look of annoyance clouding his face. He too, it seemed, was unhappy with Molly's suspension.

"Who's Mills?" John asked. "And what's the 'LaGrange incident'?"

"He used to work at Barts. Left a few months after you started coming around. Sherlock hates him." Lestrade explained. "Mills botched an autopsy on Millicent LaGrange - it was murder but he ruled it an accident - causing his nibs, here," He gestured to Sherlock, "to completely lose his shit in the morgue. Security had to escort him out. He refused to work with anyone but Molly after that."

Sherlock turned away, ignoring the other men and focused on the facts he had collected. _Twenty-four-year-old male, stab wound to the ribs._ That was not the cause of death, however. _Thin strangulation marks on neck - an attempted garrotting? - and obvious head wound - blunt trauma_. His right arm lay at an odd angle, and looked severly broken; his left appeared to have been badly burnt. _Just his hand though, not his clothing…_ He was wearing a short sleeve shirt, however, so... _Is the burn old?_ It looked fresh. _Missing a single shoe? O...kay._

Sherlock suspected the head wound as the COD, but he would have to wait on Mills to confirm his deduction. _Location_ , his mind moved on. Looking around at the alley, he took in his surroundings. _Upscale apartment buildings. Recent gentrification. Unlikely spot for a murder. Most likely dumped._ Which would also be confirmed by the autopsy. _Molly would have known on sight._

 _Why would she have been with you?_

 _She might have been. I might have brought her along at… some point._

 _On a case? Not likely. She's a distraction, nothing more._

"Shut up!" he growled.

"What?" John asked from about ten feet away.

"Nothing. Nevermind." He put some distance between himself and the other two men, who were both looking at him oddly. Moving closer to the body, he refocused his mind. _Deductions! I was deducing._ Studying the man closely, he made several more observations. _Single. Bartender. University drop out. Ahh, flatshares with at least two other males._ "John! We need to talk to his flatmates!"

o0o0o0o0o

"Well, that was a total waste of time," John said as he got into the cab.

Sherlock was already composing a text message to a member of his homeless network. "Not really."

"What?" his blogger questioned. "You can't tell me that they had any useful information."

"It's what they _didn't_ say that was useful. That and the fact that they were both high," he explained as he stowed his mobile.

"They _were_?"

"Extremely. Which tells me two things. One: they did not know their friend was missing and two: they have expensive taste in drugs."

"Is that related to the murder?" John asked.

"Probably not." He pulled his mobile right back out of his pocket and obsessively checked it. He needed that autopsy report. _No messages._ "But I won't know until we get the tox screen back. Which we're still waiting for and will be for a while because Mills doesn't know the meaning of the word 'expediency'."

"So we're off to Barts to light a fire under this Mills?

"No. He'll move slower if he knows I'm working the case. Lestrade's keeping my name out of it. Trust me, I'd prefer to have the opportunity to take my frustration out on the moron, but..."

John laughed. "Want to go home and shout at Molly, then? Ya know, for old time's sake."

"I do not _shout_ at Molly, John. I never did." _Did I?_ he wondered. "We've been getting along quite well, if you must know."

"Really?" He looked at the passing scenery. "Where are we going, by the way?"

"I need to speak to someone about the stoners."

"And you just have someone for that, I suppose?"

"Actually, I do," Sherlock said. "His name is Mickey and he knows all the high-end drug dealers in the area."

"High end?"

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock explained, "There's dirt drugs, John. Smack, crack, low-quality weed. And posh ones. Cocaine, hashish, MDMA, PCP, Salvia. There are mid-range ones too, but that's beside the point and also depends on the distributor. What matters is that those boys were using just outside their price range. We need to find out who sold them the PCP - if I'm correct - and if it has anything to do with their friend's death."

o0o0o0o0o

Mickey directed them to a small time dealer by the name of 'Jam' and also gave them a couple of other names if he didn't pan out. By this time it was one in the morning and John begged off. He had clinic hours the next day and needed sleep. All in all, Sherlock felt like their first case together had gone well, so far.

He could admit that he had been slightly apprehensive about what version of his best friend he would encounter when they met at the crime scene. Whatever transpired between the doctor and his wife after the restaurant must have been positive because he seemed much more like his old self. Sherlock wasn't about to inquire as to John's _feelings_ on the subject. He'd had quite enough of that for one evening. Besides, if he wanted to find out, he could just ask Molly.

 _Molly…_

His mind drifted to his wife as he walked the streets looking for this Jam, though he kept his eyes alert for signs of danger. The area wasn't exactly rough but it wouldn't pay to let his guard down.

Her absolute submission to him earlier had been sublime. She was perfect when she gave into her own needs and let him have her completely. Her response to the flogger had driven him mad, though he wasn't shocked. He'd damn near driven his hard cock into her soaking wet snatch when he finally freed himself. She had presented a tempting picture posed as she was, her red arse high in the air, lust actually dripping out of her.

Sherlock had never wanted anything so badly as he wanted Molly Holmes in that moment.

Not drugs, not cases, not the thrill of the chase.

For all of three seconds, it had scared the hell out of him. What did it mean? Why was he experiencing these feelings? Would she take advantage if she figured out how much he wanted her?

Then she had sighed contentedly, her head dropping to the floor as she recovered and all was right with the world. His panic fled as quickly as it had come.

This was Molly. She didn't take advantage of people. She _gave_. And how would she figure it out anyway? Well, okay… she _did_ tend to see him when others didn't, but nonetheless. As for the 'feelings', they were nothing more the endorphins and hormones. Sex was powerful, he had very nearly forgotten just _how_ powerful. It had been years since he'd experienced regular orgasms and it would simply take some getting used to.

And he could easily get used to having a ready and willing Molly waiting for him when he came home...

Looking around, Sherlock found himself near the basement pub that Mickey had described. He entered and started scanning for Jam. He hoped to find some answers and get the case solved as quickly as possible.

He had far more interesting things planned for his wife in the near future.

* * *

 _Oh, Sherlock, you poor delusional fool! More to come. I'll chapter 11 as soon as it's back from my beta to make up for the lag in posting. Please give me a shout out and tell me what you think. Thanks for reading. ~Lil~_

Additional note: the song

Ezy Ryder _makes mention of 'angel dust' another name for PCP (the drug the flatmates had used), hence the title chapter. I wanted to point this out in case any of you weren't as... familiar with drugs and Hendrix as I am ; )_


	11. Thinking About You

_Hey! Thanks for not giving up on me after my long break. It's been one of those months..._

My continued thanks to all my beta's and cheerleaders. Love to you all. **Guest** who liked the shower scene: there is a bathtub scene later that you might enjoy ; ) No real warnings other than 'self-gratification'. Those of you familiar with the song for this chapter won't be all that surprised!

 _I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **Chapter 11 - Thinking About You (Radiohead)**

Standing in front of the settee, Sherlock stared at the evidence pinned to the wall in front of him.

Jason Evans, university dropout with a liking for cocaine and weed, had studied chemistry at Queen Mary. He had left the year prior and started tending bar at a pub in Camden. The pub hadn't seen him in almost a week; he'd missed three shifts. The flatmates had last spoken with him the day before, but had nothing of value to offer.

The flatmates did owe a drug dealer, but that didn't mean it caused their mate's death. 'Jam' knew the kids, but hadn't sold them the PCP. He had, however, directed them to a dealer named 'Chase' and had heard that money was owed. Sherlock had found Chase not twenty minutes later, but within seconds of meeting him, he knew the kid hadn't done it either; the money owed was nominal and though a dealer, Chase was no murderer.

Upon returning to 221B, Sherlock had sent all his information to Lestrade. The flatmates would have to be brought in for formal questioning, as per protocol. He kept the dealer's name out of it for the time being. The DI had sent back a rather rude message informing Sherlock that 4.37 in the morning was an unacceptable time for communication (though his message contained more swear words) and that he would be unavailable until noon the next day due to a meeting with his superiors.

 _If only the world moved according to my whims,_ he thought petulantly and flopped down on the settee.

During the three years he'd been away, Sherlock hadn't had to wait on procedures and such. There was a fair amount of waiting involved, but that was by design and at his own discretion. There had been no 'following the rules', so to speak. He had to admit, he missed that part. Working outside the parameters of the law had been exhilarating and freeing. It had taken quite some time to readjust to the norms of his former life.

Somehow, once he did, he felt even more comfortable than before.

Perhaps because as much as he had enjoyed the freedom, the loneliness had been crippling. Having Molly around all the time felt like a soothing balm since his return. Even before he had engaged her in sexual play, her mere presence in the flat was reassuring.

But, he had to admit, getting to touch her and be touched by her was even more pleasurable than he had imagined. And he _had_ imagined.

His mind drifted back to their shower and what he had planned to do to her once they got to the bedroom. Though he had spanked her and teased her, he'd not simply used her… yet. His plan was to test her limits and see how she felt about adding more humiliation to their playtime.

An image suddenly appeared in his mind of Molly on her knees, hands bound behind her back. She was looking up at him with pleading eyes, begging him for his cock.

Then he gave it to her.

Sherlock groaned and adjusted his hardening prick.

Returning to the image in his mind, he watched as Molly's mouth engulfed him, taking him deep. He fisted her hair and roughly fucked her mouth as she moaned, her eyes watering when his cockhead hit the back of her throat.

 _He pulled out, watching a string of spittle connect his member and her mouth. "Who do you belong to, wife?" he asked, gently massaging her abused jaw._

" _You, Sherlock. I'm yours," she said, gasping for breaths._

" _And what do you want?"_

" _Come down my throat, husband! I want to taste you!"_

Sherlock sat up with a shiver. He hastily shucked his suit jacket as he practically ran to his room. Within seconds he was on his back once again, this time with his trousers and pants shoved past his hips, his cock in his hand as he closed his eyes and envisioned Molly swallowing him down again and again. Suddenly, her hands were free, one buried between her legs, the other teasing his bollocks. Oh, how his wife could multitask.

He collected the moisture from his tip, spreading it down his dick and tugged on his balls to mimic the image in his mind. Fuck, it felt good but not as good as the real thing. Knowing just how Molly's mouth felt on his cock helped him create a realistic fantasy. _Hot. Wet_. And that tongue! Had it really been less than a day ago that she had sucked his dick? He pumped and moaned imagining her lips stretching around his shaft. His hips rose off the mattress as he worked himself towards completion.

" _That's it, Molly. Fuck yourself for me!" he instructed. She rubbed even harder as tears poured out of her pretty eyes. "Come, wife!" And she did, growling around his shaft as she rode her hand._

Sherlock came at that moment, alone, on his bed, shooting his issue onto his shirt that he'd forgotten to remove in his frantic masturbatory rush. He pumped through his orgasm, groaning Molly's name and praising her for a job well done.

" _Fuck!"_ What was going on with him? He had orgasmed just hours before. Why was he suddenly so horny that he needed to toss off in the wee morning hours to fantasies of his wife while she slept just over his head? He was in the middle of a case, for God's sake!

Standing, he unbuttoned his oxford and threw it into the corner of the room, then checked the time. _Nearly seven-thirty. Wonder what time Mills comes in today?_ He grabbed a clean shirt and fixed his trousers, then strode out of his room.

Walking into the kitchen to wash his hands and acquire coffee, he nearly ran into his wide-eyed wife.

* * *

Toby woke Molly at the unGodly time of 7.23. He had been doing this since Sherlock's 'people' had found him. The cat hadn't been an early riser before, but she didn't mind. If he was hungry she'd gladly get up and feed his grumpy arse.

She noticed Sherlock's coat on the settee as she walked through the front room. She also noticed about a half-dozen pieces of paper tacked to the wall. Shrugging, she followed her cat into the kitchen and freshened his water dish. Then she heard it...

A moan. Or was it a groan?

Stepping into the hall, she listened for it, straining to hear it again. Was Sherlock hurt? Two more steps and…

"That's it, Molly. Fuck yourself for me!"

Molly froze, feeling her face flush. _Jesus!_ She carefully took a step backward.

"Come, wife!"

Two more steps.

"Oh, God! Molly! Perfect! _So good!_ You're such a good fucking girl! _Fuck!"_

Three more steps and she was, thankfully, in the kitchen. She stood, trying to decide what to do. Should she try to get back to her room? Surely he'd hear her now that he wasn't… erm, distracted. Unless… Maybe he'd done it on purpose? That could have been intentional. Payback for her cheek in the shower. Yes, that made sense. But… he was well on his way to a, ah, finish when she had gotten downstairs. Unless that was all... fake?

She was still trying to figure it out when he walked into the room. The shocked look on his face answered at least _one_ of her questions.

"Molly…" he said, his cheeks colouring the slightest bit pink.

"'Morning," she replied as she turned and filled the kettle. _Be casual_ , she told herself. _Act like nothing strange just happened._ "How goes the case?" She opened a can of food for Toby, thankful that the task kept her back to Sherlock.

"Ah, stalled at the moment. The pathologist is dragging his feet and Grayson is in meetings all morning."

Good, it was working. "I believe you mean Greg, Sherlock." Rising up on her tiptoes, she reached for two mugs. "Lestrade's first name is Greg. Always has been."

"Immaterial."

Molly snorted. "I'm sure he'd disagree."

"The point is, that I'm stymied _and_ I hate Mills!"

 _Excellent!_ His hatred for the other pathologist was just the distraction they needed. "Really? After all these years?" she replied sarcastically as she continued to prepare the tea. "Would have thought you'd gotten over that."

"He's incompetent…"

"Still?"

"And rude!"

"Do tell..."

"He also has poor hygiene and the beady-eyed look of a habitual peeping Tom."

Sherlock had complained about him for months when they had first started working together, Molly just listened, fascinated by the beautiful genius. _So glad that infatuation is over_ , she thought as she finished their tea. "Here." She handed him his mug. "So peeping Toms have a look?"

"Yes, Molly, they look like Mills," he said before blowing gently into his beverage to cool it. "What are your plans for the day?"

 _Small talk, Sherlock? Must really be uncomfortable about being caught with your hands in your pants!_ Adding that to his list of 'tells', she sighed and left the kitchen; he followed.

This time of the morning, Molly would normally be getting ready for work. Her job had been the most important thing in her life since her father had died. Her friends mattered, of course, relationships were great, but only once had she put a person above her career. _And look where that got you._

Not willing to let her discomfort show, she put on a fake smile and said, "I thought I'd work on my original screenplay about a plucky pathologist and her charming, genius friend who keeps getting her mixed up into his crazy schemes," she said as she sat in John's chair. "You?"

Sherlock studied her for a moment and she knew that he saw right through her facade. Thankfully, instead of calling her out, he smiled at her. "Charming, huh?"

"A little. He has a certain…" She looked up and pretended to think. "... Je ne sais quoi."

He chuckled in response.

God help her! Were they flirting? _Well, this is better than wondering if I'll ever see another dead body again. Oh, that's a strange thought_.

Then again, maybe they were avoiding the _other_ elephant in the room. Her eyes drifted to Sherlock's lap. He sat with his legs splayed wide, completely opened, relaxed. It was very nearly indecent! _And_ great! Now she was thinking about listening to him wank whilst shouting out her name again. _Shit!_ She could feel her cheeks heating. Which was odd, if she thought about it, considering the fact that he had come all over her arse the night before. Really, though, how was it that she was able to still blush around the man at all at this poi...

"Molly…"

"Yes?!"

"You drifted off there. Where were you?"

"Thinking?"

"Was that a question?" He smirked.

 _Bastard!_ "Ahhh…" She panicked for a moment before asking, "What are your plans? The case, I assume?"

"Yes. I have a few leads to follow up on. Unfortunately, Barts is off limits."

"Mills won't help if he know _you're_ the one he's helping. As a matter of fact, he'd probably refuse to give you the results or make Mike double check all of his findings."

"Precisely."

"You really need to get this situation resolved as soon as possible, Sherlock," she said, taking a sip of her now cooled tea. "It's only been a day since my suspension; what will you do if it goes on and you're _forced_ to deal with him?"

He shrugged - something he didn't often do - and said, "He and I will just have to reach some sort of ceasefire, I suppose. Either that or I strangle him with a drainage tube."

Molly laughed as he finished his tea but didn't discount it as a possibility. Shortly after, he got up and left to shower, change and get back to work.

 _Work. God, I already miss work,_ she thought as she watched him leave.

o0o0o0o0o

Her day passed slowly, almost painfully so. She cleaned the flat, played with Toby, polished her toenails (something she almost never did) and then had dinner with Mrs. Hudson. The older woman was good company but Molly could have done without the knowing looks and occasional ' _I remember when Mr. Hudson and I were first married…'_ stories. It was obvious that she was aware of the sudden change in Molly and Sherlock's relationship and that made Molly a tiny bit uncomfortable. She wasn't ashamed per se, but it was private, and she did not have an exhibitionism kink (that she knew of).

After dinner, she went back upstairs to watch some telly. She had been away from her mobile for about an hour, so she grabbed it from the table next to Sherlock's chair where she had been working on her toes and checked her messages.

 **John's with your husband and I'm bored! - Mary ; )**

 **I'm new to this, how long does it usually take? - Mary ; /**

 **Okay, I don't mind sharing but he's been gone for two nights in a row and I'm going loony over here! - Mary : (**

She really must have been going a little nuts if the emojis were any indication. Molly didn't even consider sending a text to the woman, instead hit the call button.

" _Thank the Lord!"_ Mary said as she answered, sounding entirely American. Molly noticed that her friend's accent occasionally slipped now that her secret was out.

"Sorry, I was eating dinner with Mrs. H. You okay?"

" _Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little antsy. We still have a lot to talk about."_

"How'd that go, by the way? I would have phoned earlier but I wasn't sure if it was okay or…" she trailed off.

" _Well, let's just say I don't have to be jealous of you and all the sex you're having anymore,"_ Mary answered proudly.

"I'm very happy for you, but I've told you that Sherlock and I haven't…"

" _Sorry, kinky not-sex,"_ Mary interrupted.

Molly didn't have a valid argument, so she kept her mouth shut.

" _Listen,"_ Mary said. " _If this case goes on tomorrow night, you want to come over?"_

"Of course."

" _Great. I'll make pasta primavera!"_

"No you won't, you can't cook."

" _Nothing gets past you, Hooper. I'll order pizza."_

Molly giggled. "Night, Mary!" she said before ringing off.

o0o0o0o0o

The sound of her mobile woke her at 2.08am.

"Yeah, what?" she said, as she answered it.

" _Molly, it's Greg. We need you at Royal London. Sherlock's been shot."_ She must have gasped, considering his next words. " _He's fine. Bitchin' and moaning up a storm but you gotta get down here, yeah?"_

"'Course. Ah, I need…"

" _I'm sending a car, Molls. It's on its way."_

* * *

 _Oh no! Sherlock's hurt...shocking, I know. He never gets into trouble, now does he? My next update should be pretty quick but I cannot stress how much I'd love to hear from y'all! Thanks for reading. ~Lil~_


	12. Mama Said

_Okay, excuse time: I had every intention of posting this a couple of days ago, but got a monster migraine. Ick! The good news is that this one is pretty long AND it's one of my very favorites! Again, thanks to my wonderful beta's and friends, this wouldn't be possible without them. No warnings this time, just prepare yourself for some humor._

 _I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **Chapter 12 - Mama Said (The Shirelles)**

She couldn't quite remember getting dressed, or what she told Mrs. Hudson, but she did remember the cop holding open the back door of the car and helping her in. She wondered briefly if anyone had seen and thought that she was being arrested. The ride felt like it took seconds, then she was walking down a hallway in a hospital that was _not_ St. Barts. Greg had left her in the lobby after a warm hug a comforting smile. He assured her that Sherlock was fine, just being an arse, then hurried off back to the Yard.

It felt wrong. She'd been to the Royal London before, of course, but something just seemed surreal about the whole situation.

Once she rounded a corner, however, reality hit her in the face like a ton of bricks.

" **... no reason for me to stay! My best friend's a doctor! His wife is a nurse and most interestingly, MY wife is a doctor! It's a sodding fleshwound, for God's sake!"** Sherlock's voice rang out loud and clear. " **If you would be so kind as to fu…"**

"Sherlock!" Molly said as she entered his room. "I see that you're making friends." Looking around, she saw what looked like at least two doctors, three nurses (two of them male, and _very_ large) and a security guard. _Oh, they're just waiting to code him as a hostile patient._ John was standing in the corner, arms crossed. He looked both amused and annoyed.

"Thank Christ! Molly, tell these idiots that I'm fine to go home and sign the release papers for me. John has them. He's holding them hostage in the corner like a _little bitch_!"

She looked at the 'little bitch' in question (he had no papers), her eyes wide, begging for an explanation.

"He might be a tiny bit high," John said in a bored tone. "They pumped him full of morphine before I could explain… things."

"Yes, and I feel fan-fucking-tastic! Molly, love, let's go home and shag like bunnies!" He looked up at the largest nurse and winked. "My wife." Motioning with his thumb. "She a cheeky little thing. I'm gonna have to tie her up and teach her a lesson." Turning his attention back to Molly, he said, "I haven't forgotten about your sassy mouth, you know. I owe you…"

" **Can we have the room!?"** she said, raising her voice. "I believe I need to speak to my… husband." Everyone seemed more than happy to comply. Stopping one of the doctors on the way out, she pulled him aside. "I assume you've cut off the narcotics?"

"Yes. We honestly didn't know about his, erm, problem, Mrs. Holmes," the man defended.

"I understand. But you _are_ aware of who he is and that his brother holds a position within the government. If word of this should get out…"

"Oh, of course, of course. We take patient confidentiality _very_ seriously, I assure you."

"Fine. I'm sorry for any trouble he might have caused."

"No. No problem at all," the doctor said nervously, then scurried out the door.

Molly survived the room. "You too, John, if you don't mind," she said. "Sorry, but I need…"

"It's fine." He waved her off. "I'm beat." Walking over, leant closer to Sherlock. "Don't be a dick to Molly, got it?"

"You have noooo idea," the injured man said with a giggle.

John rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Good luck." He kissed Molly's cheek. "You'll need it."

"Hey! You're not allowed to kissy my wifey!" Sherlock shouted at John's retreating back, then grumbled, "I haven't even kissed her yet."

As soon as the door shut, Molly sat next to the bed. "I don't understand. You told me you used to regularly use morphine. Did you always act like an idiot?"

He exhaled deeply, letting his head fall to the pillow. "God, it's been too long." After a couple of minutes, his head lazily rolled to the side and he smiled. "You're cute. You kinda look like my wife, only angrier." Then he passed out.

o0o0o0o0o

Sherlock slept for several of hours; Molly was envious. Two nurses had checked on him, but neither attempted to wake him. She'd never heard such quiet healthcare workers in her life, as a matter of fact. Her back was killing her; the chair was far from comfortable. By eight am she was in desperate need of caffeine and her bladder was poking at her something fierce as well, so she decided she was entitled to a break.

Leaving the room, she made her way to the nurse's station. "Hi," she said, getting the attention of the woman behind the desk. "My, ah, husband is in room 512, he's sleeping and he's fine, but I need to get something to drink and…"

"Oh, of course, Mrs. Holmes. But you'll be back, won't you?" the nurse asked.

The woman hadn't been in the room when Molly had arrived, nor had she been one of the nurses to check on him. Evidently, word of Sherlock's behaviour had been passed to the next shift. "Yes. I promise. I just need a cup of coffee and…"

"I could get that for you if…"

"I also need the loo and to stretch my legs, if you don't mind…" Molly looked at the nurse's badge, "... Amy. I shouldn't be more than ten or fifteen minutes."

"Do we have your number if an emergency should arise?"

Molly gave the woman a hateful glare. "I've seen his chart, you know. It literally _is_ a fleshwound." Though a large and nasty one. "I can't imagine what kind of _emergency_ could possibly _arise_ , but here..." She wrote down her mobile number and shoved the paper at the nervous nurse. "Just in case."

On her way to the canteen, Molly wondered what kind of training these people had received that they couldn't handle a stoned consulting detective!

o0o0o0o0o

Okay, she _might_ have lost track of time. But the sofa in the large waiting area in the main lobby was far more comfortable than the chair in Sherlock's room. She was on her second cup of surprisingly good coffee when Mycroft sat down next to her. He took the cup out of her hand and downed the last two-thirds of her beverage.

She was gobsmacked. "What the hell!?"

"Just give me a moment, Molly. Please," Mycroft said, bending forward, elbows on his knees.

 _Oh, my God!_ she thought, suddenly frantic about leaving the injured man alone in his room whilst she enjoyed a dark Colombian blend and _OK Magazine_. "Is Sherlock…?"

"He's fine. Physically, at least. Mentally, however…"

"Mycroft?"

"I've just sent our parents to his room." He looked off into the distance. "May God have mercy on his soul."

Standing, she picked up the empty cup and threw it into a bin, intent on getting another before heading back up to Sherlock's room. " _Bunch of drama queens,"_ she mumbled as she walked back to the coffee stand, which was thankfully just outside the canteen. Made the wait shorter.

"Two coffees, please," she told the spotty teen behind the counter. Deciding to get one for Sherlock as well.

"Wow, you really love our coffee. That'll be…"

"Make that three and two teas, as well," Mycroft said from behind her. "Do you have anything herbal? Calming, perhaps?"

Molly turned and saw him pulling out his wallet. _Fine. He can pay for it,_ she thought. He _had_ stolen her last cup.

After stopping and adding the requisite milk and sugar, the pair headed for the lifts. Once they entered, Mycroft did the strangest thing. He hit the 'emergency stop' button on the panel, then turned to her and said, "Mummy is in quite a state. She's only just found out."

 _Okay, first of all… Mummy?_ "About Sherlock being shot?"

Mycroft shook his head, looking grim.

 _No! He can't mean!_ "She just found out that he wasn't dead?"

"No, Molly. It's so much worse than that." He took a steadying breath. "She just found out about… you."

So, evidently, Mummy ( _yes, Mummy!_ ) didn't know about her and Sherlock's fake marriage. And the best part? Mycroft was terrified of the woman. Molly couldn't wait to meet her. She must have been smiling as he explained 'the problem' because half way through he stopped speaking and huffed.

"I fail to see the humour in this situation, Molly," he said, an air of annoyance. He tried to seem intimidating but holding a bag of beverages - his suit rumpled, tie askew - he couldn't simply pull it off.

"Sorry, Mycroft. But, why can't we just tell her the truth?"

A patronising smile formed on his lips. "Oh, Molly. Sweet, simple-minded, Molly. If we tell her the truth she will gut us all. Have you ever _seen_ a female muskrat eat her young? I have…" His eyes grew wider and he gripped her shoulder with his free hand. "If we tell her that this is all for appearance's sake to save your job and keep you out of prison because someone is out to get _me_ , the she-beast will devour us whole."

"Your mother is the she-beast in this scenario?"

"Indeed. And I assure you, Molly, it will not be pretty when she does."

Shaking him off. Molly moved to press the button to restart the lift, but he stopped her. "Really, Mycroft! Let's just go…"

"No! Sherlock is right now selling this situation as genuine affection. If you divert from that script, it will be death for us all!"

The utter terror in the man's eyes was starting to get to her. Molly was exhausted, she was hungry and _great!_ she had to pee again because of all the coffee. "Fine, Mycroft. We're in love and can't get enough of each other. Will you start the bloody lift!?"

He straightened and turned, pressing the button. Molly sighed, wondering _just_ what awaited her in Sherlock's hospital room.

* * *

"Mummy, _please_. I told you, I'm fine, the bullet grazed my leg! Besides, Molly will take care of me once we're back at Baker Street…"

"Oh, yes. _Molly_!" Violet Holmes said, 'the eyebrow of doom' arching high, promising more chastisement was on its way. "Wouldn't you like to hear all about our daughter-in-law, Siger?" Though she addresses her husband, she was still looking at her bed-bound son.

"Tell us about her, Sherlock," his father encouraged kindly.

"I assumed that Mycro…"

"He told us that you were married a month ago. He told us that you _got_ married and didn't bother inviting your own parents!"

"Mummy…"

"He told us that you, young man, would explain it all. So… explain!"

At that moment, as if sent by God himself (suddenly Sherlock decided that there actually might _be_ a God), his glorious saint of a wife and sniveling coward of a brother walked into the room.

"Mummy, Dad. I brought you tea," Mycroft announced.

"Thank you, son," Father said. Taking the bag he fished out the correct cup and held it out to his wife. "Here, Vi, I think you could use this." Then the man mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like _'or a sedative'_ as he looked for his own.

"Do you _really_ think that tea will fix this, Jonathan Mycroft Francis Holmes?!" She sat down the cup, rudely pushed past her oldest child, marching up to Molly and stopped. "Violet Holmes, dear. I understand that you and I have something in common."

"Hello. I'm, ah, Molly… but you must..." She huffed, adorably frustrated and possibly frightened (if she was smart). "Sorry. In common, you say?"

"You and I both married Holmes men and Holmes men are brilliant idiots. I should know, I'm surrounded by them."

His wife giggled. "Yes, ma'am. I _have_ noticed that. Brilliant but a little thick at times." She looked from Mycroft to Sherlock then finally to their father. "Fantastic bone structure, though. And so very tall."

Mummy turned to Sherlock, her eyes suddenly sparkling. "Ooo, I like her!"

"Thank God," Mycroft said, heaving a great sigh as he sat.

"That doesn't get you off the hook," Mummy scolded. " _You_ didn't marry her!" Turning back to Molly, she took the younger woman by the hand. "We'll have a chance to talk later, but right now I need to speak with Sherlock. Alone. You understand, don't you?"

"Of course," she replied with a smile before stepping over to Father. "Mr. Holmes? I'm your daughter-in-law, Molly. Could I interest you in a very comfortable couch on the ground floor?" She leant in and whispered, "They have better magazines, too."

His dad rose, offering Molly his arm. "My dear, how could a man turn down an offer like that from a lovely young lady like yourself. Come along, Myc. Mother wants to finish flaying your brother."

Mycroft practically ran from the room, Molly and Dad following in his wake.

"Well," Mummy started, sitting next to the bed and handing Sherlock his coffee. "I suppose she brought this for you."

"Thanks."

"Spill," she demanded.

"We've known each other for years. Molly helped me fake my death…"

"Not forgiven you for that yet. But go on."

"Yes. Well, as I was saying, she helped me and whilst I was… away…" He cringed, actually cringed at the look in his mother's eyes. A grown man. The scourge of London's criminal underground, who lay in a hospital bed, with a bullet wound no less, cringed at his mother's angry look. "... I couldn't stop thinking about her, Mummy. It was then that I realised what I had to do…"

"Have your brother rush a wedding, forget to invite or inform your family and somehow _not_ post the banns?"

"I don't want to be without her, Mother." And whether it was the last bit of narcotics in his system or his scowling mum, when he spoke the words they were true. He didn't _want_ to live without Molly. Maybe there was a way for them to continue on after everything was solved. Maybe.

Mummy reached out and took his hand. Her eyes softened… just a bit. "I understand, son. But once you're healed, I insist on a visit. Overnight. And a dinner with the family." The softness faded, replaced with a look of pure menace. "Including Aunt Agatha," she added sweetly.

 _This marriage must end today!_ "Of course, Mummy. I promise." _That's my punishment, what's Mycroft's?_ "What are you going to do with Myc?"

"Oh," she said with an evil grin as she stood. "I have a special kind of repayment plan in store for your brother. But you'll just have to wait and find out like everyone else." She bent down and kissed his forehead. "Stop getting killed or fake killed or nearly killed, Sherlock. It's turning me prematurely gray."

As he watched his mother leave, he was filled with pride. The woman really was an evil genius. _And she likes my Molly..._ Which was just a bonus.

o0o0o0o0o

They released him later that day. He wasn't sure if it was because he was well enough or because he had annoyed them to the point that they simply wanted him gone. But he was home, that was all that mattered.

Lying in his bed, his right leg propped up on several pillows, he heaved a great sigh of contentment. This feeling would not last for long, and he knew it. Boredom would set in and he would start going mad… very quickly.

Molly had tried, however, bringing him books and his laptop. She had also made an early dinner and eaten with him in his room. Which he appreciated. Maybe having his engaging wife around would stave off the madness that an idle mind usually brought on. Something to ponder.

Twenty minutes after she'd cleaned up the dinner dishes, Molly knocked and reentered. "I have your nighttime meds, if you're ready for them?"

"You don't have to keep knocking, you know," he explained, holding out his hand for the pills. They were non-narcotic, but did help, a little. Popping them into his mouth, he picked up the glass of water she had given him earlier and finished it off.

"I wouldn't just walk in. That'd be rude." Molly took the glass from him and left the room. She returned less than a minute later with a fresh glass.

"You didn't knock."

"Arse." She waved her (now gloved) hand in his general direction. "I need to change your dressing."

Whipping back the sheet, Sherlock said, "By all means, nurse. Do I also get a sponge bath?" He was wearing only a pair of shorts.

Molly shook her head as she sat in the chair where she had eaten her dinner and started removing the bandages. "You are a bathtime menace, Mr. Holmes. I just may ask _Nurse Mary_ to come over and take care of bathing you," she said as she focused on his wound.

He hissed when she pulled at the 'non-stick' dressing away from the most sensitive part. It had stuck… a little.

"Sorry."

"It's fine." The bullet had grazed his thigh, but the powder burns hurt the most. "I think I'll pass on Mary, thank you. I doubt that John would approve or Mary, for that matter. Besides, we have some unfinished business, wife." He was in no shape for sex of any kind, but the pain was worse than he was willing to admit and needed to distract himself.

Molly laughed. "As if I'd allow you to attend to such _business_ in your current state." She cleaned the wound, then redressed it. As she finished up, she ran her hand across his thigh. "I could shave the rest of your leg - both legs - for you, if you like. This _is_ rather nice." Her hand stroked higher over his hairless skin, causing goosebumps to alight on his flesh.

"Do you have a shaving kink, pet?" he asked, closing his eyes, reveling in the feeling of her hand. It couldn't go anywhere at the moment but that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy it.

"Not that I'm aware of, but…" She got up from the chair, leaning slightly over him and said, "I'm thinking I might have a 'Nurse Molly' kink."

Sherlock reached up, cupping the back of her head. "Definitely something to explore." Molly bit her lip, her eyes lighting up and he had the sudden and nearly uncontrollable urge to kiss her senseless. "Sleep down here with me?" The words tumbled out of his mouth making him wish that he'd kissed her instead.

She pulled back, just out of his hold. "That's not a bad idea, actually. Just in case." She straightened her tee shirt, then moved the chair. "I'll, ah… let me go get changed and brush my teeth."

Sherlock nodded as he adjusted the sheet, covering his injured leg and smoothing it out as Molly scurried out of the room.

He couldn't explain it, even to himself, why he'd yet to kiss Molly on her mouth. He'd certainly kissed _other_ parts of her. It wasn't as if it were off limits. They had no limits; they'd never discussed them. If she ever asked, he'd explain that he wasn't into breath or blood play and a few other more extreme elements of BDSM. But she hadn't, at least not yet.

He had already deduced her likes and dislikes. For Molly, this wasn't about hardcore sadism or masochism, this was about the freedom to let go. Whilst in the bedroom, when Sherlock was in control of her sexual needs, his wife could give herself up to the pleasure he offered.

But why he had held off on kissing Molly he could not quite explain. It was a very intimate act, or could be under the right circumstances, but Sherlock had never put much stock in that idea. Many times he had used the act of kissing, snogging even, to disarm or manipulate a person - a suspect or a witness - he was not above using his physical appeal to his advantage. He saw it as a tool and nothing more. In this case, however, he kept holding back, waiting for the right moment. What that 'moment' was precisely, he didn't quite know, but…

His train of thought was cut off by a knock. "Just open the damn door!" he barked.

"Don't get stroppy with me already," she said as she entered, leaving it cracked.

"I wasn't being stroppy and why is the door opened?"

"I told Toby where I was sleeping. He'll be in later, I imagine." She sat on the other side of the bed, pulled off her socks, putting them on the bedside table then got under the covers.

"And you are under the impression that he understood you?"

She smiled and turned to face him. "He is a very intelligent cat, Sherlock."

He chuckled as he tried to find a comfortable position. He usually slept on his left side, which wasn't an option at the moment. Molly was still fully dressed and he had considered reminding her of the rules, but decided against it. Sleep would be challenging enough without his naked wife distracting him.

"God…" Molly sighed. "You better be careful, your bed is infinitely more comfortable than that mattress of torture in my room. Where'd you buy it by the way? Morte's Medieval Mattress Emporium?"

"There's nothing wrong with a firm mattress, Molly."

"I notice that _yours_ isn't firm."

"It's firm enough." He turned off the light. "Now stop complaining and go to sleep." As he closed his eyes, he wondered if he had deliberately chosen an uncomfortable mattress in hopes of getting Molly into his bed regularly. _Ridiculous!_ Though he had been formulating the plan to move their relationship to a more mutually beneficial arrangement, he had not formed any kind of attachment for her at that point.

 _Or now,_ he reminded himself. _I'm not attached now either._ He didn't even know why he kept asking her to sleep in his bed.

 _Are you sure about that, son?_

This time, for some reason, the 'other' voice in his head sounded a lot like his father. _I am absolutely certain. As a matter of fact, I need to refocus my mind on solving our problem and returning our lives back to normal. Molly belongs in the morgue, not my bed._

 _Keep telling yourself that and you just might start to believe it._

Sherlock shuddered at the truth of the statement his mind had provided. It had only been a month since she'd moved in, just a few short days of engaging her in sexual contact and he could not deny how much he had come to depend on her presence in his life. Not just in his life - she had been in his life for years - but in his home, his bed…

 _Damn…_

 _There you go._

 _Now what?_

 _Enjoy it, I suppose. Remember, I don't have any_ actual _advice for you, Sherlock. I'm still you, of course. You see, your subconscious is just using the voice of your father to get the point across. Most likely because you saw him earlier today and the connection is fresh. That and you think of him as a source of wisdom, especially when it comes to matters of the heart._

 _Heart,_ he scoffed. _This is about consistent sexual release. Something which I've been without for far too long, it seems._

 _So it has nothing to do with the fact that Molly is absolutely perfect for you in every possible way?_

 _None._

The voice in his mind sighed, just like his dad. Sherlock felt himself smile fondly. _Son, can I ask you a question?_

 _I suppose, but won't it just be me, asking myself a question?_

 _Indeed._ The voice was exasperated now. It made Sherlock happy, for some reason _. Why did you do all of this? Why did you approach her that first night?_

He felt slightly uncomfortable talking with the voice of his father about his sexual experiences. He told himself that it wasn't really Siger Holmes, but his own thoughts. Then he started to offer up the same explanation he'd given to Molly about helping her 'sort through' her needs and the rubbish about 'reducing stress' and he stopped.

 _I wanted her,_ he answered _. I wanted her the whole time I was away..._

 _Ah, the truth comes out… finally. And when, son, did you know that you wanted her?_

 _The night I asked for her help. I wanted her then. I almost…_

 _Almost what?_

 _I almost kissed h…_

Pain shot through Sherlock's right leg and he sat up, reaching out blindly. "Damnit, Toby!" he hissed when his hand met fur. Blinking, he realised what had just happened. He'd been sleeping, dreaming.

" _Mmrowff_."

" _Yes, well, sorry. But you jumped on a fresh gunshot wound, you spoilt beast!"_ he said in an angry whisper. Nudging the cat off of his lap and towards his sleeping bedmate, he lay back down. " _Go cuddle your mistress."_

Sherlock drifted back to sleep as his mind tried to recapture the conversation with his father. The next morning he would have no memory of it whatsoever.

* * *

 _As I said, one of my faves! It'll only take a minute to hit that 'review' button and it will make my day. So much more to come. Thanks! ~Lil~_


	13. Hurts So Good

_Excellent! We're really moving along, aren't we? Just an FYI, my youngest son is starting online learning this week (with me as his instructor) AND I'm starting a parttime job tomorrow. If posting slows, you know why. Thanks for all the encouragement and support._

 _No warnings for this chapter, but I will caution that attempting to have just about any kind of sex whilst laid up in bed with a gunshot wound is a bad idea...Not that Sherlock cares about that..._

 _Fun fact! My sister once went to a house party with John Cougar Mellencamp's brother. True story!_

 _I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **Chapter 13 - Hurts So Good (John Cougar Mellencamp)**

The dream was forgotten, or replaced was more like, by yet another much more interesting dream. This one involved his naked wife and an activity they'd yet to engage in.

Sherlock woke up hard and damn near miserable. His leg hurt, of course; it burned like the devil and he was in need of another pain pill. But it was the least of his worries, if he was being honest. His back was stiff and sore from having slept in the same position all night. And then there was his cock; it ached for release as he recalled feasting on Molly's quim in his dream. He also needed the loo.

 _Damn…_

Just as he was contemplating all of his various miseries and what to do about them, the cause of one of them walked into the room. Freshly showered and wrapped in his burgundy dressing gown, Molly carried a glass of water and a steaming cup of tea.

"Thought I heard you groan," she said, a worried look on her face. "You want your pill now or after the loo?"

Sherlock thought about it before answering, "Loo, tea then pill, I think."

With a nod, she moved to the bed and helped him stand. Wearing only a pair of thin boxers, it was impossible to hide his morning problem. Molly seemed not to notice; he had hoped that she would.

After a short, frustrating (pissing with a hard-on was never fun) trip to the bathroom, she escorted him back to the bedroom. Once he was seated, she held out his pill.

"Not quite yet, Molly," he said, having formulated a plan during the trek down the hall and back. "Could I get a back rub? It hurts more than my leg." He reached for his tea and took a large drink.

She seemed confused. "Why not just take the pill?"

"They make me sleepy, but don't do much for pain," he explained, working toward his goal.

One hand on her hip, she said, "Then you'll be asleep and _not_ in pain."

"You know as well as I do that _sleep_ does not equal painless. Besides, sleeping is what hurt my back." She raised a questioning eyebrow. "I sleep on my left side, Molly. As of right now, I must sleep on my back. It's… stiff." And it was, as was his cock (though somewhat less than before his trip to the bathroom).

With a dubious, narrowed-eye glare, she set the pill on the bedside locker and motioned for him to scoot forward. After she sat down behind him, she asked, "Where does it hurt?"

 _Between my legs,_ he thought. "My entire back is sore but it's worse in my lumbar triangle."

"Mmhmm..."

Though she hummed sceptially, she put her warm little hands on his lower back and kneaded, drawing a contented moan from him. " _Perfect."_

The problem lay in convincing Molly that he was well enough for any kind of sexual activity. He wasn't, of course, but his dick didn't care a little thing like a fresh wound. If he managed to make her feel like his erection was entirely _her_ fault (which it was… Dream Molly and her delicious cunt had left him wanting!) then he'd be more likely to talk her into playing.

 _I am a bastard,_ he thought as her hands moved up his spine. "God, Molly…" he moaned.

"You're enjoying this far too much."

"Perhaps you're just an exceptional nurse," he said with a chuckle. "I could send out for a uniform. It would make convalescence _much_ more interesting." Molly giggled in return. _Good, she's loosening up._

Her leg was cushioned next to his hip, and after about five minutes of her tender yet effective massage, Sherlock nudged his dressing gown off of her leg, lightly brushing her curiously smooth skin.

Her hands stilled. "Sherlock," She shivered. "Whatcha doing?"

 _Nice try, Molly, but if you weren't interested in playing why did you just shave your legs?_ "We've got a situation, wife."

She didn't speak immediately. He knew that she would get his meaning by the use of her title. "Ah, what kind of… situation?"

"Give me your hand," he instructed.

"Sherlock…"

" _Husband_ ," he corrected. "And give me your hand." She still hesitated, but finally presented him with her right hand. He drew it up, laying a soft kiss on the palm. "Good girl." Pressing it flat against his stomach, just above the waistband of his pants, he said, "Go ahead."

Molly slowly inched her hand under the cloth until she found his erection, causing Sherlock to sigh loudly. She stroked him a few times and he had to admit that there was something delicious about seeing her hand moving up and down, obscured by the fabric. He didn't always wear pants but was currently enjoying the loose boxer's role in their activity.

Very quickly though, Sherlock realised that Molly's intentions were to bring him to a swift end. He couldn't have that; he was the one in charge here. Reaching for her wrist, he stalled her movements. "Stand, wife, and remove the gown."

She huffed, but stood nevertheless. It had been less than a week and she was already beautifully accustomed to following his instructions.

As the dressing gown fell to the floor, Sherlock plotted. He knew what he _wanted_ , but could he manage it? The better question was could he talk Molly into it? She was pliant in the bedroom, but her concern for his well being would override her submissive tendencies, he was sure of it. He'd have to get her distracted before making his demands.

"Go to the top drawer," he motioned to the dresser to his right. "You'll find a small box. Bring it over here." His leg still stung, but wasn't so painful that he couldn't manage. The pain in his back was all but gone.

Molly returned with her little box, holding it out to him. "Open it," he instructed. She did, eyes widening as she peered inside. "Take out the pink one. Then put the box on the bedside table."

Locking eyes with him, Molly picked up the modest sized pink dildo, then placed the box next to him on the table. Her breathing had picked up and he was certain that he could smell the hint of arousal coming off of her.

He patted the other side of the bed. "Come, wife. And follow my directions to the letter."

Though she narrowed her eyes, she walked around the foot of the bed. "Get into a comfortably submissive pose." He wondered what she'd choose.

Climbing in on the other side, she paused for a moment as she considered her options. They hadn't talked about poses, but he knew she'd done her homework. Finally making her decision, she said, "You _do_ remember that you were released from hospital less than 24 hours ago, right?" as she settled on her knees.

"I seem to have a faint memory of it, yes."

"You never did tell me what happened, by the way." It was oddly sexy to watch his wife speak so casually whilst kneeling on his bed, completely naked. "You got the murderer, I assume?"

She was being a bit defiant, trying to insert mundane chit-chat into playtime, but he decided to let it slide. "Move closer." After she had scooted towards him, yet not close enough to touch, he said, "Within reach, wife," in a reproachful voice.

With a roll of her eyes, she moved to his side, her left knee touching his left hip. "Is this good enough, _husband_?" she asked as she folded her arms across her chest. Her attempt at defiance was somewhat hindered by the fact that she still held a bright pink dildo in her right hand but she kept a petulant frown on her face the entire time.

She'd never been openly _bratty_ with him. _This could be fun_. At the very least diverting. Maybe two weeks of 'bedrest' wouldn't be so bad afterall. If only he had the strength to show her just how little bratty subs were properly dealt with. "Try to keep in mind, Molly, I won't be bound to this bed forever," he warned with a raised eyebrow. She straightened and dropped her arms. "Are you comfortable?"

"For now," she replied, then hastily added, "husband."

Sherlock nodded. "Spread your legs wider, pet. Tell me if your knees start to hurt." He patted her thigh once she had complied. "If you're a good girl I'll give you a special treat." _Nevermind that it's just as much of a treat for myself._ "Understand?"

Molly bit her bottom lip, struggling with something, she fought the urge to speak her mind. She clearly understood the shift in dynamic.

"Say it, Molly, before you explode."

"You're not supposed to be doing… _anything_ , much less…"

"It's a fleshwound."

"Yes, but it's still a _wound_ , Sherlock!"

He was a bit surprised at her adamance. She had seemed fairly relaxed about his injury (it was minor, after all), but suddenly he could see just how much the events of the last 24 hours had affected her. Knowing Molly, she'd be much more at ease after hearing what actually happened, but that would have to wait.

"Be _very_ good for me and I'll tell you all about it _after_."

"You'll be careful?"

"Of course, wife. I certainly don't want to prolong my recovery." She nodded. "Are you wet at all?"

Shaking her head to the negative, she said, "No, husband." There was a hint of shame in her voice.

"Can't have that." As he softly caressed her thigh an idea struck him. Smirking, he said, "You heard me, didn't you, wife?" A slight inhale of breath was her only response. "The other morning, you heard me pleasuring myself." Eyes wide and dilated, she nodded her head. "I require verbal answers, Molly, you know this."

Nervously fiddling with the phallus in her hand, she said, "I did, husband." A lovely blush spread across her cheeks.

"That was _very_ naughty, listening to me when I didn't know you were there…"

"I had no idea...!" she started to defend herself.

"Nevertheless, if I were well enough you'd be on the receiving end of one hell of a bottom blistering." Her face went from pink to damn near red. Sherlock repressed the desire to laugh outright. "You're a lucky girl, Molly."

"I know, sir." Biting her lip, she averted her eyes.

 _Sir? Hmmm…_ "Turn around. I want you on all fours, young lady."

Without delay, Molly got onto her hands and knees, her exposed quim pointing directly at him. The effect was immediate. His erection went from mostly hard to something akin to a steel pipe in seconds.

 _Perfect._ Sherlock raised a hand and found that she was just out of reach. "Move closer, pet."

Scooting back, his wife put her pussy within touching distance, then asked, "Am I close enough, husband?"

He answered by dipping a finger into her core. She was wetter than he'd expected. "Call me 'sir' this time."

She sucked in a breath.

"Feel good?"

Molly grunted, "Yes, sir!" and started pushing back against his hand.

"You want more?"

"Please."

Adding another finger, he obliged, letting his thumb roll over her hard little nub. "If you want something, sweet girl, all you have to do is ask, you know."

"Come, sir. I wanna come!"

 _Already? I think not._ He was enjoying her desperation far too much. "Still have your toy, pet?" he asked in a sugary voice.

Humping his hand, she answered, "Right here," and held it up on the air.

"Good girl." He removed his fingers, causing Molly to make a high-pitched whine. Letting the wet digits graze her thigh, he patted her bottom. "You're wet enough now, darling, I want to see you use that. Careful, though," he warned. "You haven't earned that orgasm just yet."

The pink phallus appeared between her legs. She rubbed it over her clit first, then dragged it through her folds before sliding it home. It was nowhere as big as him, but slightly bigger than two of his fingers. Molly rocked back, her hips moving as she slowly fucked herself on the piece of latex and his cock got somehow harder.

He shoved his pants down to mid-thigh, ignoring the pain caused when the elastic touched his bandaged wound, and gripped himself. _Not yet!_ he growled internally, holding onto the base of his dick in hopes of wrestling it into submission.

Out of nowhere, Sherlock felt an intense surge of jealousy. _Ridiculous!_ Pushing away his sudden hatred of Molly's toy, he focused on watching his wife tease herself. His view was spectacular. With every thrust of the dildo, she got wetter, enough for him to hear the beautiful squelch of her juices upon reentry. The toy itself was drenched in no time.

Oh, how he wanted to _be_ that fucking dildo.

"Tell me what you want, pet." He kept his voice as even as possible - not wanting her to know how desperate he was - and tried to infuse it with warmth and caring.

"Please… ah, sir! Can I come?"

" _May_ I come, precious," he corrected with a sadistic grin. "And no, you may not."

Molly growled and slowed the dildo even more. It was time.

Reaching for the phallus, he pulled it out and placed it on the bedside locker. "Crawl up here and let me take care of you," he crooned.

His wife turned, obviously confused. "Up on what?" Her eyes moved to his cock, watching as he stroked himself.

What the hell was he waiting for; clearly she wanted it as badly as he did. There was something to be said for the build-up, however. He'd yet to decide _when_ they would take that particular step in their relationship, but he knew it wouldn't be when he was laid up from a gunshot wound.

"Straddle my face, Molly." He scooted lower in the bed and yanked the two pillows out from under his head, tossing them to the floor. "Hold onto the headboard." Lust and anticipation thankfully overrode the pain that shot up his leg as he moved.

Licking her lips, she started to crawl forward, inching slowly closer. Just as she was about to lift her leg she stopped. "Are you sure? I don't want to hurt your…"

"You won't be touching my leg, pet. Let me take care of you.".

Finally, she got into position with one leg on either side of his head, her swollen, wet sex just over his face. _What was I waiting for…?_ he wondered as he pulled her closer, letting his tongue graze her outer lips. Molly's breath hitched and Sherlock looked up to find her gripping the slatted wooden headboard with white knuckles.

"Look at this messy little cunny," he said in a husky voice before tugging her even closer and nipping at her damp thigh. "I'm going to clean you all up, wife."

Molly grasped then moaned.

Distantly wondering if her reaction was for his words or his actions, he turned his attention to her folds, drinking up her honey, not letting a drop go to waste. Though he had tasted her on his fingers and hers on several occasions, that was nothing compared to drinking directly from the source. He worked his tongue from her clit to her perineum, then back. When he reached her entrance, he pulled her even closer, slipping his tongue inside her tight passage.

"God!"

He teased her, working her from the inside, and very soon she was humping his face. Sherlock wondered for a moment if he could make her come from a good tongue fucking. Using his hands to change her position, he nudged her clit with his nose and Molly started begging.

"Please, sir! I'm so close!" One of her hands found his hair, holding him tightly in place. "I need… Please!"

Releasing his tight grip on her thigh, he reached lower, closing his right hand around his cock. Oh, this wasn't going to take long. He slowly stroked himself as he urged her up an inch or two so that he could take a breath and issue his next demand.

After gulping in a lungful of air, he said, "Now, wife! I want to taste you as you come in my mouth!"

* * *

Molly was too far gone to even consider disobeying the man underneath her. After issuing his order, Sherlock tugged her back down and devoured her in earnest. God, it felt like he had several tongues lapping at her at once. As he sucked her clit into his mouth, she cried out, her world narrowing down to the sensations coming from her centre, radiating out to nearly every part of her body.

Not five seconds later, she felt something wet hit her back. She was confused until Sherlock pushed her up just enough to gasp and call out her name. _He really likes coming on my back,_ she thought distantly as she steadied herself on the headboard.

Her legs were weak and a bit sore from the strain of the position. He hadn't told her she could move, so she stayed put. Sherlock let out a few more gasping breaths, then tugged her back down. His tongue was back on her - in her, cleaning her, carefully avoiding her over-sensitive clitoris. He took his time, seemingly enjoying his work, humming as he tongued her folds.

A pat on her bottom alerted her that he was done, so she moved once again, lifting herself off of his face. When she looked down the sight she found was absolutely sinful: his face was wet with her fluids and slightly red, but his smile… God! His smile made Molly want to kiss him madly. _Beautiful, smug bastard._

"That…" She paused, trying to find the right words but there weren't words for what she'd just experienced. Giving up on articulating herself, she moved to his side.

Still smiling like a fool, Sherlock said, "I have to agree." He chuckled. "I'll have to ask you to help me with your aftercare this time, pet."

Molly nodded, her eye immediately moving to his leg. She gasped when she saw that blood had soaked through the bandages.

"Calm down, Molly. It was just the increase in my blood pressure. It's not reinjured."

She got up and moved around the bed to get a closer look.

As she reached for the bandages, Sherlock spoke, "Stop, wife. First things first." He motioned towards her naked body. "Go to the bathroom and get me two wet flannels."

When Molly returned, Sherlock was sitting up. Patting the space next to him, he smirked. "Let me see your back, pet."

He was clearly intent on cleaning her, so she obliged and felt him wiping his seed off of her. Once finished, she stood, her eyes instantly back on his injury. "Can I tend to…"

Nodding his head, he used the other flannel to clean his hand stomach and chest. "Go fetch you supplies, nurse. When you're finished I'll need the loo again." She turned to leave, but was stopped by Sherlock once again. "Also, I'm a bit hungry. And since you were so good, I'll tell you about the case whilst we eat." He winked.

* * *

Oh _, that cheeky little...! So, what do we think about 'sick Sherlock' and his trickery? Thanks for reading. Why don't you hit that review button and make Lil smile?_

 _Next up, breakfast and The Case of the Uncoordinated Uni Dropout. ~Lil~_


	14. Accidents Never Happen

_So, who wants to hear how Sherlock got shot? I have to give mad props to Mr Lil for this chapter. Much of the following was his idea. I took said ideas and worked them into fic. Bless that man! Thanking all my wonderful betas and friends who helped make this all possible. No warnings except for canon-typical violence._

 _I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **Chapter 14 - Accidents Never Happen (Blondie)**

After finishing with his leg - he was right, it looked much worse than it actually was - and taking the flannels back to the loo, Molly set to making breakfast. He hadn't eaten much at dinner the night before so she cooked up eggs, bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms and toast. Adding coffee and juice to the tray, she carried it into the bedroom.

Once they were settled with their plates, she asked him to tell her about the case. Sherlock smiled. She knew that smile, it was his 'I'm about to be a big old show-off, do pay attention' smile. But if she were being honest she was quite excited. _Breakfast and a story just after a lovely orgasm… I'm a lucky girl._ She suppressed a giggle.

Sherlock ate about half of his meal before he got started. "The drugs lead didn't pan out and the COD was wholly confusing when I got it back from Mills, that is."

"What was the COD?" she asked, before taking a bite of tomato.

"Let me get there." He smirked, his eyes glittering. "At the scene, I found a partial bloody footprint and handprint smeared on the wall about three meters from where his body was found." Taking a sip of coffee he added, "Remember that," with a wink.

"Hold on, where was he found?"

"Camden." She started to speak, but he stopped her. "Indeed. Not a likely spot for a murder, at least not recently. That's why I considered it a dump."

"It wasn't?"

He laughed. "Hardly."

Anyone else might have been put off by Sherlock's behaviour, but Molly Hooper was quite used to death and murders. His amusement only made her more curious. She picked up her toast and nibbled as he got back to his story.

"The COD was an internal brain hemorrhage; a blow to the head, obviously. Initially, it appeared that someone had beaten him quite severely. He had a stab wound to his ribs, a broken right wrist, the palm of his left hand was burnt - just his hand, though - not his clothing. Also, he was missing one shoe."

Molly opened her mouth, once again, to speak but Sherlock held up a hand. "I'm not finished and, yes, the shoe is important. His nose was broken and his face badly scratched. Lestrade's' idiots thought he'd been tossed from a van, hitting the wall hard enough to cause the damage to his face." Rolling his eyes, he asked, "You have any idea how hard it is to _actually_ throw a human body?"

She shook her head. "Never tried it."

"I have. Trust me, it's basically impossible. You can drop a body, roll it, push it- perhaps two professional bodybuilders could manage it, though awkwardly. Haven't you ever heard the saying 'I trust them as far as I can throw them'?"

"Right." She'd have to take his word for it (and remember to ask later _how,_ exactly, he knew how difficult it was to throw a body). She asked, "So, he'd been beaten?"

Shaking his head, Sherlock picked up his fork, loading it with mushrooms and tomatoes. "He did it all to himself," he replied before eating the bite.

"I'm sorry, he what?"

He chewed and swallowed. "I went back to the scene and followed the blood trail…"

"Blood trail?"

"Yes. It was dark when I'd first arrived at the scene that night and I missed it. The area wasn't very well-lit," he explained. "The trail led me to the main road at the end of the alley. About two blocks west, I found some broken plastic with blood on it. A few feet behind that there was a wrought iron fence with blood as well. Then the blood trail stopped."

"He was stabbed on the main road?"

"Wasn't stabbed at all. Some of the buildings in this part of Camden are still fairly shabby. I had a theory by this point, but nothing solid. I was looking for some place large enough to serve his purpose. It didn't take long. I found a small building that had clearly not been refurbished by the pseudo-bohemian hoard that has taken over the neighbourhood."

Molly snorted at his description.

"I found his shoe wedged in a storm drain in the alley."

"That shoe," she laughed.

" _Told_ you it was important." He laughed. "In the backgarden there was an old clothesline. It was sagging, but still intact; the ground beneath it was recently disturbed. The back door of the building was not only unlocked but opened." Leaning forward, he asked, "Who leaves their door unlocked and standing open?" The smug look on his face got somehow smugg...er as he continued his tale...

* * *

 _Sherlock stood in the open doorway, taking in his surroundings. Clear glass jars in a dozen different colours lined the walls of what was once a kitchen - it now seemed to be a makeshift lab - and cardboard tubes littered the floor haphazardly. The counter was covered in detritus as if someone was in the middle of work and never finished. On the floor, several meters from the counter, was an old coffee can, the bottom edge of it was bloody._

 _He smiled as his deductions were confirmed. Jason Evans was making illegal fireworks to pay for his drug habit._

 _Closing his eyes, Sherlock recreated the scene:_

 _Evans was in the middle of his 'work' when something went wrong. Grabbing the tin can, he tried to cover the small explosion in an attempt to contain it. That was his first mistake. The can was insufficient, of course; the blast blew the can directly at Evans' head, causing the first injury._

 _Stumbling back, he fell, blacking out for several minutes. As he came to, Evans knew he needed medical attention, but was far too disoriented from the head injury to think clearly. He exited through the kitchen door, leaving it open. With bleary eyes, he tried to make his way through the back garden, running into the clothesline quite hard, nearly killing himself for the second time._

 _Getting up, he moved towards the alley where his shoe got stuck in the storm drain; he left it for a bad job. Finally making his way to the main road he decided to try to hitch a ride to the hospital. As he held up a hand a double-decker bus - the driver not seeing him at all, as Evans had stepped out between two cars - nearly took off his right hand. A quick check with the metro bus authority confirmed that one of their buses had a damaged headlight but that the driver had no idea how it happened. Either the driver was lying or he'd never actually seen Evans. It didn't matter, really, since the hit wasn't the cause of the idiot's death._

 _He stumbled back from the impact, causing the 'stabwound' by impaling himself on the fence. Somehow, he managed to get himself off of the fence spindle - not knowing that this most likely bought him several more minutes of life… albeit painful minutes - as the blood draining from the wound lessened the pressure on his brain._

 _Now, suffering from not only a blow to the head but a bad bleed near his ribs, he stupidly headed into the alley. The severely injured man attempted to scale the short brick wall - creating the hand and footprint - but simply didn't have the energy; he was_ dying _after all. He banged his face on the wall in the process, scraping it_ _down the wall, causing even more damage. He then stumbled once again, falling three meters away. He would have died within a half hour from the blood loss, but the_ _hemorrhage_ _got him first._

 _Coming out of his mind palace in the makeshift lab, Sherlock felt cold steel pressing on the back of his head._

" _I don't know who you are, but this ain't your day, mate," a male voice said. He then heard the cock of a gun._

" _You don't want to shoot that," Sherlock said in a bored voice as he raised his hands._

" _I'm pretty sure I do."_

" _This room is filled with explosives…"_

" _Go on and pull the other one, you posh prick!"_

Great, another idiot! " _If you fire that gun, we'll both die." Gesturing with his raised hands, he said, "Those cans are filled with black powder - this room is a conflagration waiting to happen."_

" _Wha…?"_

 _He sighed. "Big boom room, for God's sake! Take me outside if you have to kill me." If he could get the thug outside, he_ should _be able to disarm him._

 _The gun moved, and his assailant grabbed him by the nape of the neck, moving them both through the open door. Once they were in the garden, Sherlock twisted, ducking his head and elbowing the other man in the gut. The move managed to knock the wind out of the thug, but he recovered quickly, pulling the gun up to Sherlock's chest._

 _Sherlock grunted as he grabbed for the weapon. Then the wrestling match started in earnest. The pair struggled for control of the gun until Sherlock got it pointed away from his body. When the other man shoulder checked him, Sherlock stumbled back just far enough for the thug to take a wild shot. It missed and he lunged towards the idiot once again. The man fired again; this time their bodies were pressed closely together and the bullet grazed Sherlock's thigh, powder burns scorching his skin in the process._

 _Close as they were, Sherlock took advantage, headbutting the thug in the nose and knocking him out._

" _Goddamnit!" he cursed, as he picked up the gun. After looking at his leg - and deciding that it wasn't as bad as it felt - he pulled out his mobile. "Gavin... " He panted when Lestrade answered. "I have a situation…"_

* * *

"My God, Sherlock. I don't know whether to be horrified or impressed." She smiled. "Or amused."

"Amused is the corrected emotion, I'd imagine. Evans, the hapless fool, died because of his own stupidity after more than an hour of self-inflicted injuries." He finished off his breakfast, looking happy and contented.

"And Greg arrested your attacker?"

He nodded. "It seems that he'd just happened upon the open door and was planning on robbing the place. Now he's got a whole list of charges. I'm looking at him for a few break-ins around the area. Lucky that."

Molly grinned as she stood, picking up their dishes. "That was fun but I'm afraid it's time for your pill, my crime-fighting husband."

Resting his head on the headboard, he cut his eyes up at her. "I don't deserve you, wife."

She snorted as she turned to leave. "You probably don't."

o0o0o0o

The next two weeks of Molly's life were interesting, to say the least. She was no longer on a sexual edge, waiting for Sherlock to strike at any moment. She had put her foot down after that morning; no more play time until he was fully healed! Even refusing to 'sleep' in the bed because it was too tempting.

Those two and a half days of sexual exploration had been exciting and quite enjoyable, but it was unrealistic to think that they could maintain that level of intensity. She hated to admit it, but his injury was probably a good thing. Oh, she wasn't happy that he was in pain, but it wasn't serious, more irritating if her patient was to be believed. Most importantly, it served to slow things down between the pair.

Unfortunately, Sherlock's mood got progressively worse, making Molly wish she could distract him with sex, if only to shut him up and give her some peace. He was whiny and easily bored. Keeping him entertained was a fulltime job in and of itself. The telly worked for almost a half a day, then he was throwing things at it, so she moved it back to the front room.

He was able to link his attacker to the break-ins by his second day of bed-rest and spent almost an hour on his mobile shouting orders at John, then giving Greg the information required to add more charges. Boredom set in almost as soon as he'd finished and Molly wished secretly that it had taken longer; at least he was occupied whilst he was working.

By the third day, she phoned Greg and begged some cold case files off of the DI. He came by, giving Sherlock a stack of _busy work_.

John popped in every other day or so. She took this time to do the shopping and have a little 'me time', frankly just to get away from the demanding git. Coffee with Mary became a regular occurrence whilst the men visited. She coveted the time spent with her friend; it gave her an opportunity to complain about Sherlock's behaviour and just relax.

His parents visited as well, always with Mycroft in tow for some reason. Molly enjoyed watching the usually intimidating man cower and kowtow to his _mummy_. She rather liked the Holmes'. Yes, Vi (' _Please, call me Vi, dear. We are family, after all.'_ ) was a little intense, but well intended. Besides, Molly could understand how being the mother of Sherlock Holmes would make a person slightly anxious from time to time. And then there was Si (' _You can call me Si or dad, Molly, but save the Mr. Holmes for Myc. He enjoys it far more than I do.'_ ). He was so warm and funny; it was obvious that Sherlock got his sense of humour from his father. It was difficult to gauge where the intelligence had come from, however; both of his parents were incredibly smart, that much was clear.

The strangest thing by far, Molly found, was that even with his moodiness and tendency to behave like a toddler, this time of 'domesticity' was quite lovely. She rather enjoyed cooking for them and chatting with the man. Sherlock had a wicked sense of humour, which she knew of course, but in the last couple of weeks, they had been able to just talk and laugh whenever the mood struck. She didn't have to wonder when a case was going to call him away or if he was going to suddenly order her to strip and lie face down on the bed.

Having a sick consulting detective to take care of helped distract her from missing Barts, though she did miss it terribly. She kept telling herself that this was temporary; that Sherlock would fix things and _not_ let her lose her job or medical license. At some point, she decided to look at the whole mess like an extended holiday. Though she had never imagined vacationing at a Central London flat with a grumpy forty-year-old who spent most of his time trying to _trick_ her into sexual acts. _The idiot!_

She did miss the sex, of course - and was nearly tempted to give in on several occasions - but there was something to be said for simply getting to know each other as they had been since his injury. Not once in the last two weeks had she questioned his motives for their sexual contact because there was none. His leg was on the mend and he knew (Molly wouldn't let him forget) that anything could slow down his recovery, causing him an extended stay in the flat and away from his precious Work. That didn't stop a near constant stream of sexual innuendo and 'Nurse Molly' jokes.

The danger was increasing and she knew it. If it was just sex, that was one thing. Just about saving her job, okay, that she could cope with. But suddenly Molly felt even more connected to the man than ever before. Their conversations, their dinners, their inside jokes that neither Mary or John would understand when they stopped by, it all felt so incredibly... _real_. Like they were an actual couple.

Which they weren't.

And they never would be.

Soon, very soon, she'd have to start detaching herself from him or else she'd have one hell of a heartache to deal with when this all ended.

o0o0o0o0o0o

Sherlock was finally able to walk freely without much pain (or none, according to him - though she didn't quite believe him). So they sat, a little over two weeks after the incident, on the sofa, eating the dinner that Mrs. Hudson had sent up. Molly normally cooked but their landlady said she had plenty and was adamant about sharing.

He had an appointment scheduled the next day and if it went well, he'd be released to get back to crime solving. Molly prayed for a good outcome. Dear God she needed some space, time away from the man!

They had talked about anything and everything during his convalescence, but Molly was curious about his family and hadn't yet inquired about them, for some reason.

"Sherlock?" she said, returning after taking the clean dishes back downstairs.

"Yes."

She sat down next to him. "Tell me about your parents. What did they do before they retired?"

He put down the file he'd been flipping through and turned towards her. "Mummy was a mathematician. She wrote one book - it's still considered the best in its field - before she faded into obscurity and motherhood."

"You sound like you disapprove."

"Of Mycroft's birth? I do," he said with a sour look on his face.

The joke caught her off guard, causing an unattractive snort to escape. "Stop!" she chastised.

"You are a lucky girl, Molly. To be an only child…" He stared off across the flat wistfully.

Molly jabbed a finger into his rib, causing him to grunt. "He's not that bad."

His face sobered as he looked at her. "No. _He's_ not."

 _That was odd,_ she thought. The way he'd emphasised the word _he's_. Shaking it off, she asked, "And your dad?"

"Father worked for MI6. I know very little about what he actually did, if I'm honest. He never really talks about it."

"Your father was a spy?!" she gasped, though didn't know why she was surprised.

"Something like that."

"Is that why Mycroft decided to work for the government?"

"No. That would be Uncle Rudy's influence," he answered with a sigh, letting his head fall to the back of the settee.

Somehow Molly knew there was a story behind the gesture. "Sherlock…?"

He turned his head, looking at her for a moment before saying, "Eurus."

"What?"

"Eurus..." he repeated defeatedly as he raised his head, swallowed and closed his eyes. Leaning forward, he opened his eyes, though he focused on a point across the room, and said, "Would you look in the back of the cabinet under the coffee maker and get the bottle of Johnnie Walker and a couple of glasses?"

She paused for only a moment before standing and walking into the kitchen. Finding the whisky and glasses, she returned. After pouring them each a finger, she handed Sherlock his glass. He downed it then sat it on the coffee table and poured another measure then drank it too. Molly sipped hers.

He didn't pour another drink, just sat back, bringing his left leg up on the settee. He still held the empty tumbler in his hand. Clearing his throat, he looked at her. "Eurus was my sister, Molly."

"Was?"

He looked away. "She's dead. She died a year ago."

"How?"

"I… It was my fault." His voice was flat, dead.

Molly gasped. " _Sherlock…_ "

He inhaled sharply as he straightened his spine. Molly watched his 'walls' - which she hadn't seen in a very long time - slip seamlessly into place. Suddenly he was the Sherlock Holmes she had met six years before. No trace of _her_ Sherlock could be seen.

"I was in Munich when I met her. I didn't even recognise my own sister. Of course, I hadn't seen her since I was six, so…" He trailed off, but cleared his throat and continued, "The beginning is probably a better place to start. Eurus was... troubled." A mirthless laugh escaped as his face screwed up and took on a look of utter despair. "She killed my childhood friend, Victor. Shoved him into a well and left him to die. His body wasn't found for three days. Our Uncle Rudy placed her in a home and there she stayed until it burnt down twelve years ago. Our parents are under the impression that she died in the fire. Mycroft, Rudy and I knew the truth."

Pausing, he seemed to be trying to steady himself before he went on. "Mycroft and Rudy searched for her, of course, but they never found her. At the time of her disappearance I... wasn't in a good place and was unable to help." He didn't elaborate, but she sensed that he was talking about drugs. "Unfortunately, James Moriarty found her… at some point. "

" _My God…"_

"When she approached me in Munich I was completely taken by surprise. I'd never come across her in all my research and surveillance of the Network. She said she knew who I was and what I was looking for - _who_ I was looking for. Her reason for turning on the organisation was plausible: she claimed to be the ex-girlfriend of Sebastian Moran, Moriarity's right hand and the linchpin to the whole network. I was… wary, obviously but she did have good information. We met every few days for three weeks. She kept feeding me Intel, saying that she would let me know what she wanted in return. I had assumed that she'd want some kind of protection. I did not trust her for a moment, but I wanted those contacts. I could feel the end nearing, Molly."

He paused here and poured another finger of whiskey. Drinking it slowly this time, he was clearly getting lost in the retelling of the story.

* * *

All _right, we're about to get into a pretty angsty bit but I have to give credit where credit is due... My 14-year-old came up with 'big boom room'. Isn't he brilliant? Let me know what you thought about how the idiot killed himself. Reviews make my day! Thanks for reading. ~Lil~_


	15. Girl On Fire

_Everyone seemed to enjoy Sherlock and Molly's little domestic interlude... fun! Well, now for some angst. Thanks for all your support, for the reviews and follows. Also, to the guest who reviewed so many chapters: I so wish I could reply and thank you personally, but this will have to do. THANK YOU! You rock my socks!_

 _Again, remember all my betas and all their hard work. This time I have to thank my sweet husband once again. He was very helpful with the firearms information (I'm not a fan and had to rely on him almost completely with the guns business!). Rememer, the grouped italics are a flashback._

 _ **Warning** : Canon-typical violence and a tiny bit of gore. _

_I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **Chapter 15 - Girl On Fire (Alicia Keys)**

Sherlock had no idea what had possessed him to spill this, his darkest secret, to Molly, but he was in too far to back out. Taking time to gather his thoughts, he drank the whisky, letting the burn ground him - remind him that it was over, that he was _not_ in a snow-covered forest in Germany, but on his settee with his warm, comforting wife.

Finishing his drink, he set the tumbler on the coffee table and exhaled a deep breath. "We usually met in the city, in busy shops or cafés. On on sixth meeting, Elif - that's what she called herself - her German was perfect, disturbingly so. I knew she was faking it. I think she wanted me to know, actually... " He shook himself and continued, "Elif asked me to meet her at a new location; said that she was being followed and was certain that Moran's men were on to her, on to us."

"I assume you knew that she was up to something?" Molly asked.

"Of course I knew," he said more harshly than intended. "But I was arrogant, _so bloody arrogant!_ " He sighed. "I met her anyway."

"And no one knew you were meeting her."

"There _was_ no one, Molly. I was completely on my own at this point." Leaning forward, he ran his hands through his hair. "There was no backup plan. No _big brother_ to call when things went sideways." He sat back, mentally chastising himself for the utter disaster that his arrogance had brought about that day. "I met her just outside the city. It was completely isolated. So fucking stupid!"

 _Sherlock sat in the Audi he had hired to drive to the remote location. His palms were slick with sweat as he scanned the woods that surrounded the dirt road. "Been alone for too long,_ " _he said to himself as he double checked his Glock 17 before sliding it back into its holster. He then checked his Ruger GP100 ten shot .22 revolver before putting it back as well. He was also carrying a Heizer .45 caliber double shot derringer in an ankle holster. His 'oh shit' pistol, as it were._

I'm slipping _. And he was. He should have never agreed to this meeting, but this Elif had Moran's location and he needed it to finish the job._

 _Thankfully it was still daylight, if only just. He had maybe an hour before night fell and he lost the advantage of the sun. The sound of tyres on gravel drew his attention and he looked in the rearview mirror to see an approaching SUV._

Tinted windows. Large enough to carry six to eight people, depending on their size.

 _Elif got out, wrapped neck to toe in a heavy parka._ She could be hiding an M16 underneath that thing, _he thought as he watched her walk toward him. His doors were locked, of course. He nervously shrugged his shoulders, adjusting the harness on his holster. When she was standing right next to his door, he rolled his window down two inches._

" _Elif," he said._

" _Unlock the damn car,_ Smith _. I'm freezing out here."_

 _She said 'Smith' as if she didn't believe that was actually his name, but she'd always addressed him in such a manner. He'd never been surprised by her disbelief; she was smart, after all. "Where is he?"_

" _I'll tell you when you open the door."_

" _You can tell me just as well from there," he insisted._

" _And I can freeze to death in the middle of my tale," she said, a puff of fog coming from her mouth as she huffed in annoyance. "What? You suddenly don't trust me?" She smiled, or smirked, really. "After all our time together? That hurts."_

 _That smirk, it was… familiar._ What the hell?

" _Get out of the car, Sherlock, and we'll talk."_

 _Her accent was suddenly gone as was the pretense that she wasn't fully aware of his true identity, apparently. Sherlock was thrown for a split second; he hadn't anticipated her showing her hand so early._

" _It is a simple request. Please follow it. I'd hate for things to get... ugly," she said with a proper English accent._

 _The road was a dead end -_ I am the biggest idiot in the world _\- and now blocked by the SUV._

 _Pulling a handgun out of her pocket, Elif pointed it at his head. "Out, Sherlock. Last time I checked Audi doesn't make bulletproof glass a standard feature on their hire cars."_

 _He had no choice. As he opened his door and climbed out, the doors of the SUV opened as well; two very large men got out and approached them. There were probably more, but he couldn't worry about that at the moment. He had the woman in front of him, gun drawn, and two enormous henchmen to deal with._

" _Meet my bodyguards, Bob and Dave," Elif said._

" _That's not our names," one of the giants said in English, though his accent was so thick it was difficult to make out._

" _No matter," she said, waving him off. "You and I, Sherlock, have some unfinished business."_

" _Do we now?" he asked. His hands were in his pockets; she hadn't asked him to raise them or even attempted to disarm him._ Curious _._

" _Oh, yes. We do." She lowered her weapon. "How are dear mummy and daddy doing?"_

 _His blood ran cold and he instantly knew who was standing in front of him. "Eurus?"_

" _Hello, big brother," she grinned like she'd just won a great prize. "Do they miss me? Did you… miss me? I won't bother asking about Myc. That boy - Oh, sorry,_ man _\- is missing a heart. Don't know how he manages to function without one."_

 _He couldn't respond; he had no words._

" _I know you're shocked…" She sounded almost remorseful, though he was sure it was put on. Everything about this woman - his sister! - was a facade. "But trust me when I say that it has been a_ pleasure _getting to know you these last few weeks."_

" _Why?" he asked, finally finding his voice._

" _Why has it been a pleasure?"_

" _Why did you do this?"_

" _Oh, because Jim asked me to, of course."_

 _If he hadn't been half frozen and already cold with the shock of discovering her true identity, he was sure the blood in his veins would have turned to ice. "Jim?"_

 _She nodded and smiled. "Yes. Your archenemy._ My _Jim." Stepping closer, she leant in and whispered, "My lover, Sherlock. Your nemesis fucked your little sister. A bit warped, isn't it?" Pulling away, she waved at her goons and the pair moved forward._

 _Sherlock had no time to process the information he'd just been given. He broke to the left, making for the front of his car; it was his only real means of protection. The odds were against him and he was about to die. It was clearly her goal. If what she'd just told him was true, she would blame him for Moriarty's death, of course._

 _Once the bonnet of the car was between him and the thugs, he pulled the Glock. It had seventeen shots and he needed every advantage he could get._

" _Oh, I was hoping you'd fight!" his sister shouted with glee._

 _He fired at 'Bob', clipping the man's shoulder. It didn't even slow him down. Sherlock's second shot caught the hulking man directly in the throat, felling him easily. Henchman number two was still closing on him, however, and fast._

' _Dave' seemed to be weaponless, though that didn't hinder him. He lunged at Sherlock, grabbing the smaller man by the collar and slamming him against the car before he could get another shot off. Sherlock tried to twist out of his hold, but the man was unbelievably strong. Behind him, he could hear his sister's manic laughter as 'Dave' drove his fist into Sherlock's sternum. He distantly wondered if the man was aiming for his stomach, but had misjudged the height difference._

 _Old 'Dave' had at least six inches on him._

 _The punch cracked at least one rib, driving the air from Sherlock's lungs and stunning him for several seconds, long enough for the man to land another blow, this time to his face. His cheekbone took the brunt of this hit and pain exploded through his entire face. He managed to dodge the next hit and get his gun up to the man's stomach in the process. Both of Eurus' men were wearing heavy coats and he wasn't sure that they weren't outfitted in body armour, that's why he'd aimed high with 'Bob', but had to take a chance with this one. Pulling the trigger, he shot, causing the big man to stumble back and reach for the wound._

 _Just then the doors of the SUV opened and two more men got out. This pair was smaller and armed._

 _Sherlock tried to move quickly but lost his footing. Slipping on the freshly trampled snow, he dropped behind the wheel well of the Audi. 'Dave' was still in front of him, clutching at his belly. "Sorry, mate," Sherlock said, aiming his gun and shooting the injured man in the head._

" _Sherlock, sweetie, as much fun as it is to watch you kill my chattel, I do have a schedule to keep. Could we hurry this along?" his sister said, her voice still coming from the other side of his car._

 _She hadn't moved._ Good _. She was letting her men handle him._ I'll get to her when I'm done. _He heard the sound of footsteps in the snow and knew that the other two men were approaching._

 _A gunshot rang out, nearly hitting him, and he looked up, seeing one of the shooters at the boot end of his car._ Where is the other? _The sun was setting and he was about to be in almost complete darkness. That could be good or very, very bad. These men could well be acquainted with the area. Probably were._

 _He was near the passenger side of the car and even if he was able to get in, they would then open fire and he'd have to try to maneuver through the snow, hoping not to get stuck in a drift._

 _No one was making a sound. Until..._

 _The quiet worked to his advantage. He knew where gunman number one was. As he listened closely, he heard the crunch of snow, and a very soft whisper. His sister was giving instructions. Gunman number two was directly behind him, near the driver's side of the car._

 _As quietly as possible, Sherlock lay down in the snow and looked underneath the vehicle. There. He saw two sets of feet. Carefully, he aimed at the larger set and shot. A startled yelp told him that he'd met his mark and he immediately flipped onto his back, ready for gunman number two. The action drew out the other man, who rounded the boot of the car and opened fire._

 _Lying on his back was not optimal, but he had no choice. Sherlock caught a bullet in his left arm as he fired, unloading his Glock. The gunman went down, bleeding out in the snow. Getting up onto his knees, he surreptitiously looked at the SUV, waiting for more of his sister's 'chattel' as he pulled the Ruger from his holster._

 _Nothing. No movement._

 _Only one left and he was injured._ So are you, _he told himself but shook it off, casting a quick glance over the bonnet of the Audi. His sister was nowhere in sight. The last gunman, however, was near the rear passenger door._

 _Sherlock assumed that his sister was making her way to the SUV now that the numbers had dwindled. He had no choice. If he was going to catch her, it was now or never. Standing, he brazenly approached the man crouched next to his hire car._

" _She's left you for dead, you know?" he said, his gun trained on the man._

" _I'm dead either way, Holmes. You, her or Moran. Doesn't matter." He raised his gun._

" _Me then," Sherlock said as he fired, shooting the man between the eyes._

 _It had all been far too easy. He looked to the SUV and saw his sister standing next to the driver's side door. "Eurus!" he called out._

" _No, Sherlock. As much as I've enjoyed our reunion, I'm not ready to give up my freedom. Jim wanted you alive, you see. If you managed to survive the jump, that is." She said the last word with a mirthless laugh. "He thought you might, by the way. He wanted us to keep playing. But Seb..."_

 _That explained it. He walked forward cautiously._

" _... Seb's got different plans."_

" _And you?"_

 _She smiled sadly and shrugged. "I…I don't quite know. I really just wanted to meet you." She paused, shaking her head almost dejectedly, though her smile never faltered. "I won't survive this. Seb's in charge now and he's... not my biggest fan."_

" _I can still get you out, Eurus."_

 _She laughed. "You can't. This is all I know, Sherlock. All I've known for… I can't even remember my other life." Looking around, she seemed to be thinking, or was she remembering? "I do have flashes, sometimes… You, Mummy, Dad. But…" Her posture changed, her back going rigid, her face hardening. "They're never quite enough."_

 _Sherlock sighed. He didn't know what to think of this woman. She was calculating and brilliant. A psychopath, obviously, but she was his sister. He needed to get her back to England, back to Mycroft. It would blow his cover, but…_

 _He also needed Moran. The man was the very last piece of the puzzle._

" _Where is he, Eurus?"_

" _Where is always is, big brother," she said as she opened the door and climbed into the SUV._

 _Just then, the back door behind her opened and a tall blond man exited the vehicle. He stood very close to the door, near enough to make his escape if need be._

" _Holmes," the man said. "We meet at last."_

 _"Sebastian Moran, I presume."_

" _In the flesh."_

" _I don't suppose you'd be so kind as to turn yourself in for me, would you? I've had a bit of a day, you see and I'd like to have a shower and some chips. Oh, and I should probably get my arm seen to. You understand, I'm sure," Sherlock said, trying his best to stall and formulate a plan, though nothing was coming to mind._

 _Moran chuckled. "You're funny. Like your slag of a sister. She's funny too." His face changed from amused to furious. "Annoys the piss out of me."_

" _A family trait." He took another step and Moran held up a hand._

" _Not today, Holmes. I was just checking you out. Wanted to see what I was up against. Live and in person. Not bad, for a posh boy, I must say. The little slut and I had a bet. She didn't think you'd kill 'em; I knew you would. I may have cheated a bit. Told them to go easy on you. I don't like losing." He nodded his head; the gesture was very nearly friendly. "Until next time, Holmes." Moran quickly got into the car and shut the door. It sped away._

"That was the last time I saw my sister," he told Molly. "Alive."

"What happened?"

"Two months later, I was staying in a flat in Barcelona. I was in disguise at this point, of course, had a new alias and backstory. Moran and Eurus knew me, my face, though it seemed that they had for a while. I'd been out following up a lead most of the day. When I returned there was a box on my doorstep. No address, no name. After carefully checking it for explosives, I opened it."

He poured one more glass of whisky, drank half of it, he said, "It was Eurus' head," then finished his drink. He hadn't looked at her for quite some time. Couldn't if he were being honest.

" _Oh, Sherlock…"_ She reached for him and he let her take his hand.

"I'm fine, Molly. Really." He stood, his muscles tight and achy from sitting for so long. "I, ah…" Glancing down at her, he saw the look on her face and cringed. "Bed, I think," he said, turning and walking to his room.

* * *

She sat staring after him for several minutes, trying to decide what to do. Since the morning that he'd talked her into fooling around Molly had slept in her own bed, but suddenly she felt the need to be near him. Desperately.

Knowing that what he had shared with her must have been incredibly difficult, Molly rose from the settee and quickly made her way to her room. She fished out a pair of pj bottoms and a tee shirt, then changed her clothes. After that, she patted Toby on the head and informed the cat that she was sleeping with Sherlock and that he knew where to find them. After a quick stop in the bathroom to clean her teeth and wash her face, she knocked on Sherlock's door.

"Come in?" he answered, sounding confused.

Molly stepped into the room, smiling. "I, ah… Can I sleep in here tonight?"

"I told you that I'm fine." His voice was harsh and a bit rough.

"I know. Maybe I just wanted to sleep in a comfortable bed for a change," she said, making her way to the other side of the bed.

"Still complaining, I see."

"It's awful, Sherlock!"

He huffed and scooted down in the bed.

Molly rolled toward him as he reached out and turned off the light. By the time he had moved back into bed, they were touching.

"I know you think I'm fragile and hurting, but I assure you I'm not," he said, his voice low and deep. "I didn't even know her, Molly."

"Then why did you just drink a half a bottle of single malt?"

The room was silent for several minutes, then finally Sherlock said, "That was the first time… the only time I've ever killed anyone. I had shot people before, injured them before sending them to the authorities, my contacts with the CIA and the like, but…"

"You had no choice," she said.

"I know."

"And Eurus is _not_ your fault."

"No?" he asked. "I was blind and arrogant, Molly. I walked right into her trap and let Moran set me up. Set _us_ up."

"It sounds like he wanted her dead. You couldn't have prevented that."

"I could have grabbed her. I could have at least tried…"

Molly moved even closer, snuggling up against him, and wrapped her arm around his waist. "Sherlock, she _chose_ to leave the institution, she _chose_ to be a criminal."

"Moriarty groomed her."

"I'm sure he did."

"No, Molly. I _know_ he did. Moran told me. Rubbed it in when I finally got him."

Leaning up on one arm, Molly looked down at him, his face illuminated in the small amount of light coming in through the window. "Your sister is _not_ your responsibility, Sherlock."

"I'm supposed to be better than that. I'm the one who fixes things…"

 _Oh, God…_ He sounded so broken. "Not everything," she said, fighting tears; they wouldn't help him and only make her look weak.

He pulled her down, letting her settle on his chest.

"I should have, though," he whispered, then kissed the top of her head. "It's what I do. I'm supposed to save people. Especially the ones I..."

Though he never finished his sentence Molly knew what he was going to say. Three years of being alone had taken its toll on Sherlock Holmes. Meeting his sister then… God, she couldn't even begin to imagine. He clearly blamed himself for her death.

Lying there in the stillness of his bedroom, Molly felt him relax; his breathing evened out and the arm around her shoulder went slack. She tightened her hold around his chest, snuggling even closer to the now sleeping man.

She was so comfortable, so content. It was easy to pretend that it was all real. But it wasn't of course. And now she was afraid that she'd just found another missing piece of the puzzle. Sherlock's story had very enlightening. She was starting to understand.

He hadn't been able to save his sister; he'd failed Eurus, at least in his eyes. So what had he done as soon as he returned to England? He had embarked on some kind of mission to save _her_ instead. As she lay there in his loose embrace, Molly wondered if he wasn't somewhat relieved to have this chance to redeem himself, if this whole mess hadn't been exactly what he needed upon his return.

She wasn't a replacement for John, as she had feared. She was his guilt.

God, this was even worse than she'd imagined. Misplaced obligation was so much worse than loneliness. Though in truth, none of the reasons she had considered for his interest in her had offered her much comfort.

As she held onto him securely, she told herself that she needed more distance, ironically. "Tomorrow," she whispered when she heard his soft snores. Tomorrow she'd put her weak heart back where it belonged. But tonight she would hold him and be held by him simply because it felt so damn good.

* * *

Okay _, that was tough. Poor Sherlock! This was a difficult chapter to write, so your feedback would be greatly appreciated. I've been working on prepping the next three. Hopefully, we won't have to wait too long for them (smut returns in the next one; ). Thanks so much for reading! ~Lil~_


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